


Not a Perfect Soldier

by Skarabrae_stone



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Captivity, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Identity Porn, M/M, Misunderstandings, The Army finds Steve first, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 93,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: In a world where HYDRA was wiped out in the '40s, Steve is found by the Army rather than SHIELD. General Thaddeus Ross wants a perfectly obedient super-soldier at his command, and to that end, he sets out to break Steve to his will. As Steve struggles to come to terms with all he has lost, his life in captivity is only made bearable by the presence of another prisoner-- another super-soldier known only as "Soldat".Then the Avengers strike a deal with Ross to "borrow" him for missions, and Steve is faced with a team who dislikes him, an organization he doesn't trust, and the question of what he's willing to do to escape Ross's clutches.





	1. Soldat

**Author's Note:**

> There are content warnings at the beginning of each chapter; please heed them.  
> As always, comments much appreciated!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings in this chapter for imprisonment, mild torture, referenced character death, references to the Holocaust, and grief/mourning. Further details in the end notes.

_"Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. You will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."_

\-- Abraham Erskine, _Captain America: The First Avenger_

 

Steve wakes up strapped to a steel table in a room with concrete walls. His mouth tastes horribly sweet and sort of grimy at the same time, and his throat feels like it’s been scrubbed down with sand, and he’s so _cold_ —a shudder runs through him, nearly lifting him off the table, and he remembers the plane. The Arctic. Peggy’s voice in his ear, the water rushing up to meet him—

He tries to move, struggles desperately against the restraints, but can’t do more than slam himself against the table. There are some kind of cuffs around his wrists and ankles, straps across his chest and stomach, and they bite into his bare flesh. He realizes, in a hazy sort of way, that he’s wearing a pair of cotton trousers and nothing else; whoever’s taken him prisoner has also taken his uniform.

For some reason, that panics him more than all the rest; he tries again, fruitlessly, to break through the restraints, until his strength fails and he collapses, panting, against the table again. He tries not to think about how the first time he saw something like this was at Azzano, when he rescued Bucky— _Bucky_ —a wave of grief washes over him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth against it. It won’t do him any good to dwell on that now.

If HYDRA has him, or the Axis forces, then he’s just got to hope the Howlies will get wind of it, that Peggy will come after him. He tries to hold on to that, the image of her red lips and brown curls and no-nonsense attitude. Surely, if anyone can get him out of—whatever this is—it’ll be Peggy.

The door slides back, and his eyes fly open. The man who enters the room is—dangerous. Steve can see it immediately in his walk, in the way he carries himself. He’s also carrying a truly excessive number of weapons.

The guy is probably around six feet tall or a little under, broad-chested, and he’s dressed from head to toe in black, including a mask over the lower half of his face. His brown hair nearly reaches his shoulders.

“Who—” Steve starts, and breaks out coughing, his throat dry as dust.

The stranger strides forward, calm and precise as a stalking cat, and picks something up from behind Steve’s head. Steve flinches, but it’s only a water bottle—a weird one, made of clear plastic. The man pulls a tab on it, then brings it close to Steve’s face.

Steve tries to jerk his head away, and the man grabs his chin.

“Stop,” he says in a gravelly voice. He has an accent—Russian, Steve thinks. Eastern European, anyway. “It’s just water.”

He wants to fight, but he’s also thirsty, and this guy probably isn’t above forcing him, anyway. After a moment, he opens his mouth.

The man squirts a stream of water into the back of his throat; he gags and coughs, but eventually manages to swallow, and then to drink enough to chase the dryness from his throat. He turns his head to prevent getting drowned, as the man seems ready to pour water into his mouth all day.

“That’s—enough.”

The man withdraws the water bottle, and then just stands there, like he’s waiting for something.

Steve swallows, licks his dry lips. “Are you—are you HYDRA?”

“I am the Asset,” the man says quietly.

A couple seconds go by before Steve realizes that there’s no more forthcoming. Is the guy playing with him? Anger leaps to his defense, chasing away the chill clinging to his bones. “Who are you working for?” he asks sharply. “Where am I? What is this?”

The man glances at the corner of the room, as though seeking inspiration, then back at Steve. “You are,” he says haltingly, then stops. Looks at the ceiling. Shifts his stance into parade rest. “Hello, Captain Rogers,” he says, as though reciting a script. His accent shifts, into a generic American like the radio announcers use. “You are currently in the custody of the United States Army. You have been restrained for your own protection, and the safety of those around you. We ask for your cooperation as we assess the threat you present to American society.”

Steve stares at him, thrown. “I’m—I’m not _dangerous_ ,” he says. “I don’t—why would I be a threat to America?”

The man just looks at him, like this wasn’t on the script and he doesn’t know how to improvise new lines. _He’s insane_ , Steve decides. _Or maybe he’s a robot or something. I wouldn’t put it past HYDRA to come up with something like that, with all the other shit they’ve done._

“Okay,” he says, breathing through his nose. “Did you have any other speeches for me? Like how I got here, maybe?”

The guy perks up, clearly having received a cue. “The year is 2013,” he recites. “You have been trapped in the ice for sixty-eight years.”

“The hell are you talking about,” says Steve flatly.

“Earlier this year, a gas-mining expedition to the Arctic discovered the site of your plane crash in 1945. The Army recovered your body. You are now in Army custody.”

“Yeah, you said,” Steve mutters. His mind is spinning. 2013? How is that even possible? How is any of this possible? Does this mean—his heart suddenly drops into his stomach. Does that mean Peggy is dead? Jones and Morita and Dernier?

 _No_ , he thinks. _No, there’s no way. This is a—a trick, or a hallucination, or…_

The man seems to be waiting again, standing next to the table as though prepared to stay there all day.

“What do you _want_?” Steve snaps at him.

The man blinks. “I—want?”

“Your organization,” Steve clarifies. “The Army. Whoever.”

His eyes are curiously blank, shuttered, like there’s no person at all behind them. Steve thinks of a different pair of eyes, the same shade of blue-grey, but so full of life, sparkling with mischief and humor, and feels sick. Some of the guys he brought back from Azzano looked like this, like they were dead men walking around. The ones who look like that are usually the ones who don’t survive. Whatever happened to this man to make him this way, it can’t be anything good.

“I’m going to take you to your cell,” he says, after an uncomfortable silence. Then, almost as an afterthought, “If you try to fight me, I’ll hurt you.”

“Good to know,” Steve bites out. He has no intention of going anywhere without a fight.

The minute the guy releases one of his hands, he lunges forward, aiming a punch at his face. Moving faster than Steve would have thought possible, the man catches his fist in his left hand, and just—holds it there, exerting enough pressure that Steve’s bones creak. The hand is hard, unyielding—it’s made of _metal._

Steve stares at him, flabbergasted. “How—”

“I told you not to fight me,” the man says calmly, and twists Steve’s arm behind his back until his muscles scream and his eyes water with pain.

He clenches his teeth to keep from crying out, and the man takes advantage of his distraction to finish cuffing his hands together. He is neither gentle nor rough, merely efficient, fitting the cuffs to Steve’s wrists as dispassionately as though he’s dressing a doll.

When he goes to fit a metal collar around Steve’s neck, Steve jerks away, and the man slaps him on the head.

“Hold _still_.”

“So you can put a _collar_ on me? I don’t think so!”

The guy doesn’t respond, just grabs hold of Steve’s hair with one hand, forcing him back onto the table. Steve chokes at the press of metal against his throat, but can’t break the other man’s hold. There’s a click, and he lets Steve up.

The collar doesn’t choke him anymore, but it’s cold, and chafes against his skin. Steve glares. “Is that really necessary? You’ve already got me trussed up like a turkey—”

“It’s a shock collar,” says the man. “It won’t hurt you, unless you disobey.” He touches his own neck, and Steve sees a glint of metal there.

“Wait— _you’v_ e got one? Are you—are you a prisoner too?”

The man gives him a blank look. “I’m the Asset,” he says, like that’s an answer. “Get up, I’m taking you to your cell.”

Steve’s ankles are hobbled together, and he’s weak enough that when he gets off the table he immediately pitches forward, unable to catch his balance with his arms bound behind him. The man catches him and sets him back on his feet, keeping hold of his bicep until Steve regains his balance.

“Come on,” he says, and half-pushes, half-supports him out of the room.

Steve tries to keep track of his surroundings as he shuffles along, but everything looks the same—white floors and walls and ceilings, metal doors, countless turns and branching hallways. He thinks they might go in circles a few times; he’s pretty sure they go through the same junction at least twice. They’re clearly underground, maybe in some kind of bunker, and there’s no sign of anyone except for the two of them.

Steve still gets the feeling they’re being watched.

At last, they come to a steel door with a strange, glowing keypad next to it. The man types something in, then presses his thumb to the panel, and the door slides open.

He pushes Steve inside, and the door shuts behind them.

“Kneel,” he says.

“No,” says Steve, and the next moment his entire body convulses, white, electric pain coursing through him. His ears ring, all his muscles seize up, and his vision whites out— then it recedes, just as quickly as it had come.

He finds himself curled up on the floor, his hands clenched painfully, heart pounding a mile a minute. The man pushes his head against the floor to undo the cuffs on his wrists, then walks calmly to the door.

Steve attempts to get up, and only succeeds on flopping onto his side. “What—” he croaks. Even his _teeth_ hurt.

“Shock collar,” the man says. “You’ll get used to it.” A slight pause, then, “I did.”

The door closes behind him, and Steve is alone.

 

The cell is about eight by ten feet, with a little alcove containing a toilet and sink, with no door separating it from the rest. There’s a mattress on the floor with a blanket, a pillow, and a sheet; a toothbrush, toothpaste, and soap in the “bathroom”, and… that’s it. They haven’t even given him a shirt.

Steve wraps the blanket around his shoulders and paces. His muscles ache from the electric shock, he’s still freezing, and the floor is cold beneath his bare feet. It’s not the worst place he’s ever been, he supposes—better than the cages the prisoners had been kept in at Azzano, or the overcrowded, dirty cells in the New York City jails—but the bareness of it makes him feel scared and small and helpless.

He feels and taps along the walls and floors, searching for weak points, and then throws his shoulder against the door. He doesn’t expect it to give, and it doesn’t, but after he hits it for the third time, a female voice above him says, “Captain Rogers, please step away from the door.”

He whips around. “Who’s there?”

“If you do not step away, we shall be forced to render you unconscious,” the voice continues, and he realizes it’s coming through a speaker. They must have some kind of spy camera in here to watch him.

Well, this is as good a way as any to find out exactly what these people are capable of. He continues to throw himself against the door, ignoring the warnings, until a weird, sweet smell floods his nostrils. A wave of dizziness comes over him, and he sinks to the floor before he can fall.

 _Some kind of gas_ , he realizes, and presses his hands to his face, thinking of the mustard gas that killed his father, the chambers the Nazis use for massacre. It’s too late, though; with no breath in his lungs, it’s only a short time before he’s forced to breathe in, and everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s slumped against the door, and he’s got a hell of a headache. Other than that, he feels fine, and he doesn’t think he’s been out that long—his muscles haven’t cramped, even in this uncomfortable position, and he isn’t any colder than he was, despite the blanket having fallen off his shoulders.

He’s almost giddy with relief, images of veterans with burn scars and Nazi crematoriums still parading through his mind’s eye. This gas must only be meant for sedation, then, and he must have metabolized it fairly quickly. He wonders if he could hold his breath long enough not to breathe it next time. It’s a trick that will only work once, though, so he’ll have to make it count.

So. Think. He curls up on the bed, pulling the blanket around him, and tries to assess the situation. _Who’s really in control here, and can I believe anything they tell me?_

His first instinct is to think they’re lying—he’s been captured by HYDRA or the Nazis, and they’re trying to trick him into obedience. It’s a stupid lie, because there’s no way the Army would lock him up like this—Phillips wouldn’t stand for it, for one thing. And even if Phillips is—unaware of the situation ( _not dead, I won’t believe he’s dead_ )—there’s no reason to think the Army higher-ups would treat him any differently. After all, he’s gotten a commendation from General Eisenhower himself—hell, he met Patton in the Ardennes, shook his hand and everything, and the guy had complimented him on his actions at Azzano.

 _They know I’m an asset, they know I’m a good commander_ , he thinks. _They wouldn’t treat me like I’m—like I’m a criminal._

The thing is, it’s a stupid lie. If HYDRA’s telling him this to get him off his guard, then they should have played the charade all the way through, treated him with the kind of respect he’s used to in the Army. There’s just no _point_ in lying, if they’re going to treat him like a prisoner anyway.

 If they’re trying to get information from him, it would make far more sense for them to send in someone pretending to be an officer, and debrief him. And if they’re not, then what’s the point of lying?

As for it being 2013—do they really think he’ll swallow that? They hadn’t even bothered to wow him with some kind of fantastic technology, or do… anything, really, to make this more believable.

Why would they bother to lie, when they’re not even trying to make him buy it?

Which brings him to the possibility… that the man in black was telling the truth.

Just the thought makes him want to scream, his throat constricting with panic. He forces himself to relax, taking deep breaths as he clutches the blanket.

_Calm down, Rogers. Figure this out. One step at a time._

What does he know about his captors?

 _They want me to feel powerless._ Everything they’ve done has deliberately enforced his helplessness—from needing someone else to give him water, to the manacles and shock collar. Not to mention the man they’d actually sent in was clearly another super-soldier of some kind, and just as clearly under their control. That’s a statement, too—letting him see someone like him, already obedient to their will.

 _They think I’m dangerous._ Again, that’s clear from the security measures they’ve taken, especially the gas. They’d chosen another super-soldier just to take him from the room where he’d woken up to this cell, not risking regular guards.

 _A threat to the American public_ … Steve punches the thin pillow. _Why the hell would they think I’m a threat? When have I_ ever _acted like a threat to America?_

Unless… unless America has changed. If it’s really 2013… maybe the Nazis won the war, after all—maybe America’s a dictatorship, now, or maybe there’s been a Communist Revolution, like in Russia and China. Not that Steve’s got a problem with communism, exactly—he’s a staunch socialist, himself—but Stalin’s version of communism isn’t anything he wants to see in the U.S.

It would explain a lot, though—if he’s a symbol of 1940s America—FDR’s America—then a new regime probably _would_ see him as a threat.

If that’s the case, then the man in black could be telling the truth. If that’s the case…

 _Fuck._ His stomach turns over, and he presses his face into the mattress, trying not to throw up, or cry, or both. _God fucking damn it, everyone I know is probably dead._

He can scarcely breathe with the implication. It was bad enough to lose Bucky, but to think that Peggy’s gone, Dum-Dum, Morita, Monty, Gabe, Dernier…

“Fuck!” he shouts into the mattress, and bites hard on the pillow to prevent himself from saying anything more. Hot tears course down his cheeks, running into his mouth.

 _I should have died,_ he thinks. _I wish I’d died on that fucking plane—_

And then he remembers that he’d promised Peggy a date, and now it’s seventy years later and he’s, technically, almost a hundred years old, and—

“Fuck,” he whispers to the pillow, and hopes to God whatever bugs they’ve put in this room can’t pick up his words. “Fuck, Peggy, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Peggy, I am.”

 

He’s not sure how much time goes by. At some point, a flap in the door opens, and a food-tray is pushed into the room—overcooked and underheated, and every bit as bad as K-rations. Steve eats it anyway, and is still ravenous afterwards.

At some point, the lights turn off, but turn on again just when he’s finally fallen asleep. Then they turn off again. Then they start flickering.

He puts the pillow over his head and ignores it. Then an air raid siren goes off, causing him to leap to his feet—but after about a minute, it goes silent. He stands in the middle of the room, heart pounding, for long minutes, feeling his sweat turn clammy on his skin, before finally sinking back onto the bed.

After hours—he thinks it’s hours, it could be days or minutes—of this, he figures out what they’re doing. He was briefed on interrogation techniques by the SSR, and he knows about sleep deprivation as a method of torture. This—the lights and the noises, the cold room and the lack of food—is all designed to keep him on edge, to make him nervous and vulnerable and exhausted before they even get to the interrogation.

The problem is, it’s working.

He can’t tell time, here, and the lights are too bright when they’re on, and the darkness is suffocating, and the inconsistency is _infuriating._ He can’t predict anything—when food will arrive, or when the siren will go off, when the lights will flicker—and he can’t keep track of time, and it’s driving him crazy.

He spends most of his time in bed, head under the pillow to block out the noises, and tries to imagine himself elsewhere—imagines drinking tea with Peggy, or camped out around a fire with the Commandoes, or back in Brooklyn, in the apartment he shared with Bucky. He pretends that Bucky’s still alive, that he’ll come to the rescue any minute, blasting the door down with some crazy explosive rigged up by Dernier.

_“Hey, punk, how’d you get yourself into this mess?”_

_“Excuse you, I just saved all of New York.”_

_“Yeah, and then got yourself locked up for your troubles. Lucky I was here to save your ass.”_

“I knew you would,” he mumbles into his pillow as the siren wails overhead. “I knew you’d come for me, Bucky.”

 

He thinks it’s been maybe three days when the voice comes through the speakers again, startling him.

“Captain Rogers, please lie down on the floor. A sedative gas will be deployed in five seconds.”

Steve thinks about holding his breath, but decides to play along for the moment. He doubts he’ll have many chances to escape, and he can’t afford to waste an opportunity when he doesn’t have enough information to make it work.

He lies down, breathes in the sickly-sweet scent of the gas, and wakes up with his wrists and ankles cuffed and the man in black standing over him.

“You again,” he says.

The man just looks at him, like he’s a bug on the floor.

Steve feels a surge if irritation. _I am_ not _going to be intimidated._ He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pull on his shoulders.

“So,” he says casually. “You got a name?”

“No.”

“No?”

The man stares at him with those weird, blank eyes for a few seconds. “I… don’t have a name,” he clarifies.

“What d’you mean, you don’t have a name? Everyone has a name.”

The man shrugs.

Unaccountably, Steve feels even more irritated. “Well then, what do people call you?”

Again, there’s a long pause, while he looks at Steve like he’s grown a second head. “ _Soldat_ ,” he says finally.

“Isn’t that just Russian for ‘soldier’?”

No answer.

“If this place is U.S. Army, why the hell are they talking to you in Russian?” Steve demands.

Soldat just shrugs again. “Get up,” he says. “He wants to see you.”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

“The…” Soldat seems to struggle with a weighty concept. “The handler. In charge.”

Steve stares at him. “Has he got a name, or does everyone around here just go by job descriptions?” _Jesus, is that a thing now? Some kind of fascist state where nobody’s allowed to have names? Or… that sounds like it could maybe be a communist thing gone wrong. What_ happened _to this country, anyway?_

“He has a name,” says Soldat. He pulls Steve to his feet, and prods him towards the door.

“Well then, what is it?”

The door slides shut behind them. A group of soldiers is waiting for them outside, dressed in weird uniforms with green and brown splotches, the pants tucked into calf-high leather boots. One of them is a woman. They all point their firearms at Steve, although he notices that a lot of their eyes flick between him and Soldat. None of them seem to want to get too close.

_So they’re afraid of him, too._

Steve shivers. He feels extremely exposed, still shirtless and barefoot, and his head aches the way it does when the shelling’s lasted all day. He’d feel so much better if he just had a proper uniform on—which, of course, is probably why they haven’t given him one.

_Focus, Rogers._

They enter an elevator, sleek and futuristic despite clearly having seen a lot of use. Steve clenches his teeth at being in the small, enclosed space with so many hostiles. Then again, if anyone tries shooting in here, they’re just as likely to hit one of their teammates, so they probably won’t. Probably.

“You were going to tell me his name,” he prompts Soldat. He doesn’t know why he keeps talking. Maybe because he’s trying to prove to himself that he’s not afraid. Maybe because he hasn’t seen another human being in—however many days it’s been—and he’ll take any kind of interaction he can get.

_Pathetic, Rogers._

“Quit talking,” says one of the soldiers.

He frowns at her. “Ma’am, I have every right to know why I’m being detained, and who is—”

Soldat cuffs him on the head—not hard, more the way Bucky might, when he was exasperated and afraid that Steve’s mouth was about to get them into trouble. “Shut up.”

Steve decides that, in the present circumstances, discretion is the better part of valor. If Bucky’s looking down on him, he’s probably waiting for pigs to fly. _Don’t think about that. Focus._

They lead him down another hall, but this one has wooden doors instead of steel, and he can see a window at the far end. He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the little bit of sky visible through it, and trips over the chain between his ankles. Soldat grabs him by the arm before he can fall.

Steve pulls out of his grip, irritated at being manhandled. He hasn’t felt so helpless since taking the serum.

They go through one of the doors, to a room where a secretary is tapping on a flat device with letter keys like a typewriter. She looks up at their approach and freezes, wide brown eyes going from Soldat to Steve and back again.

“Captain Rogers to see General Ross,” says one of the soldiers.

The woman nods, visibly nervous. “One moment.”

She presses something on her desk. “Captain Rogers to see you, sir.”

“Send him in,” says a disembodied voice—clearly a radio of some sort, though Steve can’t tell where it is.

She waves her hand at the door behind her. “You can go right through.”

General Ross’s office is significantly bigger than Steve’s cell, with a nice carpet, curtained windows, and bookshelves full of glossy hardback books. There’s an American flag in a stand behind the big walnut desk, and a bunch of framed letters and certificates on the wall. The desk is nearly bare, except for a strange square of black plastic standing upright on one corner, and a keyboard like the secretary’s in the middle.

It’s a far cry from the field command centers Steve is used to, where maps and files are balanced on rickety tables in whatever barns or houses have been commandeered for the officers’ use, or, frequently, in canvas tents rimed with frost or dripping rainwater.

General Ross himself appears to be in his sixties, white-haired and wiry; his clothes are neat to the point of obsessiveness, and he’s got all his medals displayed ostentatiously on his coat. Steve hates him instantly.

He curls his toes into the carpet, trying to school his face to neutrality, and waits for Ross to speak. He sure as hell isn’t making the first overture.

“Captain Rogers,” says Ross. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Steve wonders if this is the beginning of some kind of villain-monologue, or whether the guy actually thinks there’s a chance in hell Steve will play nice with him after the past few days.

“I’d say the same,” he says drily, “but since I’m standing here in chains, I think it would be a little disingenuous.”

“Ah, yes,” Ross says, smiling faintly. “You were famed for your—forthrightness, we’ll call it. That may have been charming in your time, but I think you’ll find the Army a little less forgiving in this day and age.”

 _Your time._ Steve feels sick. He knows his voice is a little hoarse as he says, “You mind telling me what ‘this day and age’ is?”

Ross’s mouth purses. “As I am your commanding officer, Rogers, you will refer to me as ‘sir’. Is that clear?”

Steve glowers at him.

“Disobedience means pain, Rogers,” Ross says softly. “Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

He wants to say _yes_ , as loudly and defiantly as possible. He wants to wring Ross’s neck and jump out the window and run away. But he’s still wearing the shock collar. He’s so tired, and the shock had hurt so badly, and his head aches… _This is what they want_ , he thinks. And then, _What good will it do?_

“No, sir,” he grits out.

Ross spreads his hands. “See how easy that was? Now, to answer your question, Captain, it’s March 2nd, 2013. You were in the ice a long time.”

He’s been thinking about it ever since Soldat told him the first time, but somehow, hearing it repeated is worse. He clenches his jaw, trying not to betray emotion, his entire world ripped away with a few simple words.

When he thinks he’s got himself under control again, he says, “And—where is this, are we in… America, or…?”

“We are in Washington, D.C.”

Steve takes a breath. He can feel the threat of tears behind his eyes, the lump in his throat, but he can’t, he c _an’t_ betray weakness, not here, not now… He’s pitifully aware of the stubble on his cheeks, of the fact that his only means of bathing has been splashing water on himself from the sink in his cell.

“General Ross,” he says, as calmly as he can, “I’m a captain in the United States Army—or I was. My work for the SSR has been exemplary. As we are in America, and I’m an American citizen and an officer, I would like to know why I am being treated as a prisoner. Sir.”

Ross sighs, his expression going regretful and serious. “Captain Rogers, you are, to put it bluntly, an experiment. During the war, the U.S. was, frankly, too desperate for an advantage to make an accurate assessment of your capabilities. Including the threat you might present to ordinary civilians.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“We need to assess your mental state,” says Ross, talking over him. “You are a weapon, Captain, and frankly, it would be irresponsible to simply release you without adequate supervision.”

“You think I’m—what—going to go on some kind of rampage?” Steve asks incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Do _not_ take that tone with me, Rogers.”

Steve closes his eyes, counts to ten. “I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” he says stiffly. “But you have to know—I would _never_ —”

“We don’t know,” snaps Ross. “We don’t know what the serum did to you, or what it will do. We will monitor your behavior closely, and _if_ you cooperate and we are satisfied you don’t present a threat, we will release you from your current confinement.”

“And if I don’t? _Sir?_ ”

“Then you will get very used to the inside of that cell, Captain.” Ross sits back in his chair. “You will be briefed on the parts of the 20th and 21st century you missed. You are dismissed.”

If it wasn’t for the shock collar around his neck, Steve might have made an attempt to break the pretentious little weasel’s neck, manacles or no. As it is, he bites his tongue against all the things he wants to say, and follows Soldat out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Steve is imprisoned, finds out the people he knew in the forties are dead, is shocked with an electric collar, and is subjected to a sedative gas, which he associates with the Holocaust and his father's death from mustard gas. I think that's everything... let me know if there's something I missed!  
> General Dwight Eisenhower was the Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces in Europe. General George Patton was instrumental in ending the Battle of the Bulge, an incredibly casualty-heavy conflict between German and Allied forces centered around the Ardennes Forest in Belgium. Canonically, the Howling Commandos mostly targeted individual HYDRA bases, rather than assisting with more general military maneuvers, but as the Battle of the Bulge represented a significant final push into Germany, I imagine it was an "all-hands-on-deck" sort of situation. For the purposes of this fic, we'll say the Commandos got tapped to support Patton in his rush to break the siege of Bastogne. When Steve talks about shelling, fox holes, and the like, he's most likely referring to his experiences in the Ardennes.


	2. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for torture and suicidal ideation.

_while kindred intellects evoke_

_allegiance per blunt instruments--_

_Olaf(being to all intents_

_a corpse and wanting any rag_

_upon what God unto him gave)_

_responds,without getting annoyed_

_"I will not kiss your fucking flag"_

\--“i sing of Olaf glad and big”, E.E. Cummings

 

The briefing is a stack of type-written papers, articles from something called “Wikipedia”. Steve reads them hungrily, desperate to understand something about this terrible new world. The Allies won the war, he finds out to his relief, and as far as he can see, there hasn’t been an overthrow of democracy in America, either.

According to the Wikipedia, victory in the Pacific had been achieved by dropping incredibly powerful bombs on two Japanese cities, killing something like 200,000 people, mostly civilians. The Allies, it seems, had done what he sacrificed himself to prevent HYDRA from doing: used civilians as collateral to bring another nation to its knees.

 _Was this truly the only way to end the war_? he wonders. _Was that really worth it?_ He wants to believe they wouldn’t have used the bombs if it hadn’t been necessary, but he knows enough about war, and prejudice, by now to realize that that’s probably wishful thinking.

Other things are far more positive—the Civil Rights movement and desegregation, the moon landing, the eradication of polio and other dangerous diseases through vaccination. Steve is sure that everything he’s been given has been carefully censored, and some of it probably fabricated, but it appears that at least some things have improved a lot.

On the other hand, there’s apparently been another stock market crash (or something like it), and though most of _that_ article is missing, Steve wonders whether America today might be recognizable for all the wrong reasons—whether, if he went outside, he’d find Hoovervilles and lines of people waiting for jobs and soup kitchens, just like when he was growing up.

 

Ross is lying, he knows. If they were worried about his mental health, they wouldn’t be deliberately sabotaging it. He knows something about psychological assessments—there had been all the tests, right after the serum, and he’s been asked for input when men under his command were evaluated for battle fatigue—and this isn’t how they’re conducted. It’s not concern that’s keeping him locked up, it’s the desire for control.

 _A weapon_ , Ross had called him. That was what the Army had wanted when they gave him the serum, too, but now he thinks they want something more. Not just a loyal soldier, but an unquestioning one. They want to break him, use him, the way they’ve clearly broken Soldat. And if he defies them… _Then you will get very used to the inside of that cell._

Steve shivers. He doesn’t want to do a damn thing for Ross, but he also knows that, with time, anyone can be broken.

 _God help me_ , he thinks, less a prayer than an expression of despair. _Don’t let it come to that._

 

The lights and occasional sirens continue, making it difficult for Steve to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. He’s losing weight fast, and he’s always cold; he spends most of his time huddled under his blankets, trying to sleep or reading the Wikipedia over and over. He thinks that three or four more days pass while he sleeps and wakes up and cries and memorizes the contents of the briefing just for something to do.

“John F. Kennedy,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling. “Started office in 1961. Assassinated November 22nd, 1963. Authorized attempt to overthrow Cuban government. Bay of Pigs Invasion. Cuban Missile Crisis. Which was, uh… the Soviets? The Soviets had… missiles… in Cuba?”

He pauses. Despite his reading, he’s still not entirely clear on what a nuclear missile _is—_ it sounds similar to the bombs HYDRA developed, except using something to do with atoms instead of whatever the blue cube thing was. _Doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself. _The important thing is to know they exist, and they’re dangerous, and hopefully everyone’s too scared to use them now._

“The Soviets had missiles in Cuba. No, they _wanted_ missiles in Cuba. And Kennedy—”

“Captain Rogers,” the voice in the wall interrupts. “Please lie on the floor. You will be rendered unconscious in five seconds.”

Steve groans and rolls off the mattress onto the floor, too tired to bother getting up properly. He inhales deeply during the countdown, then holds his breath, pretending to go limp after a few seconds.

He can hold his breath for about five minutes, a little less underwater; he’s counted up to four minutes and thirty seconds when the door slides open.

It’s Soldat; the man walks with a particular confident poise that’s different from anyone else. Steve waits until he’s within reach, then surges upward, punching him hard in the stomach before bolting past him through the door.

He only gets five steps down the hall before his body seizes with electric shock, dropping him just as effectively as before. When his muscles finally unclench, he finds himself face-down on the floor, with a solid weight on his back and his arms twisted painfully behind him. His eyes are streaming, and he can taste blood in his mouth from where he must have bitten his tongue.

There’s a click, and he feels the pinch of metal at his wrists—the reinforced handcuffs from before.

Soldat hauls him to his feet, none too gently, and fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t try that again,” he says flatly. “Next time, I’ll hurt you.”

 Steve glares at him. “Fuck you.”

Without the slightest warning, even the smallest change of expression, Soldat punches him in the solar plexus. The blow is enough to send him staggering; he would have fallen, but Soldat catches him by the shoulder and pulls him upright again.

“If you do not comply, you will be forced to comply,” Soldat tells him, still with that same, eerily blank expression. “You are only hurting yourself.”

Steve can only wheeze, bent over in an instinctive response to protect himself while his hands are cuffed behind his back. He half-expects Soldat to chivy him along, but instead he waits quietly until Steve’s breathing has evened out.

“Ready?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts walking in the direction indicated. His legs are weak and shaky, and his stomach still aches with the force of the blow. It really does feel a bit like being in his pre-serum body again. “Where are we going?” he asks, after a minute of silence.

He expects Soldat to shut him up, like he did in the elevator, but again, the other man surprises him. “Medical examination rooms. The doctors want to check you over.” He pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t ask questions.”

Steve turns his head to look at him, confused. “If you don’t want me to ask questions, then why are you answering them?”

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crosses Soldat’s face. He looks almost… guilty. The expression is gone so quickly Steve almost thinks he imagined it.

“Don’t ask… _them_ questions,” he says. “They don’t like it.”

“And you do?”

“I have no feelings,” Soldat informs him gravely. Then, before Steve can figure out what _that_ means, “We’re here.”

 

They take samples of blood and tissue and saliva and urine, and Steve grits his teeth and bears it because there isn’t really any alternative. They make him stand in a machine to “scan” him—whatever that means—and photograph every inch of him, while he clenches his hands at his sides and tries to pretend none of this is happening. When he’s finally been poked and prodded to within an inch of his life, the doctors pronounce themselves satisfied, and hand him over to the scientists.

The scientists are much worse.

They have him lift weights, adding more and more until even he can’t lift them anymore. Then it’s pushups, pull-ups, sit-ups, over and over until his face is clammy with sweat, his thin trousers clinging to his legs. Normally, he wouldn’t mind, but it’s been days since he had a proper sleep, and at least a week since he’s had enough food. They don’t offer him food or even water now, either, and his throat burns with thirst, the headache that’s plagued him for the past few days becoming an insistent throb at his temples.

He pulls himself up to the bar again, leveling with it for something like the two-hundredth time. His arms are trembling, but he won’t ask if he can stop. He can’t let them see how far they’ve worn him down, already.

“That’s enough,” says the thin man with the horrible little mustache. “Come over to the treadmill. We want to see what your running is like.”

Steve drops to the ground, far less gracefully than he would like, and folds his arms. “I’d like some water, first.”

Mustache-Man tsks. “We’re testing your endurance, Rogers. That means no water breaks until we’re finished.”

“They ran endurance tests when I got the serum in ‘43,” retorts Steve. “Did you lose the files, or something?”

“Those tests were not nearly as comprehensive,” says Mustache-Man. “Come on, now, chop-chop.”

 _I could break you in half, you little maggot,_ Steve thinks mutinously. Something in his expression must show his thoughts, because Mustache backs up a step and withdraws a remote from his pocket.

“Don’t be difficult, Rogers,” he says. “It won’t look good to Ross if we have to shock you again.”

“I’m not being _difficult_ ,” Steve snaps, but he moves to the treadmill anyway. What choice does he have?

By the time they finish with him, he can hardly move. Soldat is called in to take him back to his cell, and after he stumbles for the third time in as many yards, the other man makes an irritated noise and shoves his arm under Steve’s, supporting his weight.

“I’m _fine_ ,” says Steve, trying to push him away.

Soldat’s grip just tightens. “You are functioning at at least 50% below optimal levels. You are not capable of walking unassisted without injury.”

“What do you care if I’m injured?”

He falters for a moment, and his arm makes an odd little rustling noise, the metal plates shivering. “You must not compromise your functionality,” he says. His brows crease, as though in confusion, and he shakes his head sharply. “You must not—you must not.”

Steve doesn’t really know what to say to that, or even what it means, and he’s too tired to parse it out. Much as it hurts his pride, he allows himself to lean against Soldat’s arm, letting himself be supported as they traverse the long, cold hallways to his cell.

 

That first day, he quickly finds out, was easy compared to what follows. The scientists—whom he’s pretty sure are “scientists” only in the way Zola and his lackeys were—move from testing his endurance to his pain tolerance. They studiously avoid the word “torture”, but that doesn’t make much difference to Steve. Zola hadn’t called his experiments torture, either.

 

Steve stopped believing in God the day his mother died. He’d figured that any god who’d let Sarah Rogers die before she’d even turned forty—die when she had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, just to help other people, and gotten so little thanks in return—wasn’t a god he cared to know. All the people at church had told him, “This is part of God’s plan, Steve,” or, “She’s with God now,” or, “She’ll be rewarded in heaven”.

Well, as far as he was concerned, God’s plan was shitty, and he had no right to take his mother when she hadn’t wanted to go.

“I’m done,” he’d said to Bucky. “It’s all bullshit, just like Marx says. And anyway, it’s not _fair._ ”

And Bucky had sighed, and said, “I know, buddy. All that Christian malarkey never made a hell of a lot of sense to me, neither.”

In Europe, though, it was different. Steve had heard the saying, “There are no atheists in foxholes”, and he’d found it to be true. It wasn’t that he believed, exactly, or that he’d suddenly found God again—if anything, he’d become even more convinced that no god worth the name could exist in the same world as the atrocities he saw on a daily basis. But when the shells were screaming over your head, and machine guns were rattling away in your ears, and there was mud and blood everywhere you looked and _there was nothing you could do about it_ , when you had to just grit your teeth and keep low and hope like hell you’d survive the night—well, you had to fall back on _something._

It’s not that he’d thought there was a God out there to take pity on him, it was just that praying was familiar, and if he was mouthing the words of the _Ave Maria_ then he wasn’t thinking he was about to die, or about how the guy in the hole next to him _was_ dead, or whether Bucky was alright… it drowned out, a little, the panic that wanted to take over his skull. There was a certain desperation to it, too; he’d pray to anything, anyone, if there was the slightest chance it would get him out of that hell alive.

They all did it, even Dernier, who was even more of an atheist than Steve, having been born to it. There was just something about the whine of a mortar shell that had you whispering, “don’t let it hit me, don’t let me die, please oh please oh please”, without any reference to logic.

Now, as he lies on the cold steel table, with their terrible, precise little blades cutting into his skin, hooked up to their various machines, he mumbles the familiar words to himself, holding onto them as the pain mounts higher.

“ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus_ , _et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus._ ” There’s a snapping noise, and the middle finger of his left hand flares with pain. Sweat beads on his forehead; he remembers Bucky whispering his name, rank, and serial number in Zola’s lab, two or seventy years ago. “ _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae_ …”

They break his ring finger, then his pinky. Steve’s vision blurs; he doesn’t remember when he last slept or ate, or a time when he wasn’t in pain. All he’s got left are the words to a prayer he doesn’t believe anymore, flimsy as a paper shield against the agony as they slowly take him apart. “ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum_ …”

It’s meaningless, hopeless, but he clings to it just the same, until the pain is overwhelming and he passes out.

 

He knows they’re trying to break him; knows Ross wants him as a tool, a weapon, mindlessly obedient like Soldat. He knows this, but after a while, it’s hard to care. Sleep and food and the absence of pain become privileges, things to dream about as they find new ways to hurt him. Over and over, he wishes he had died properly on that plane, wishes there was some way, now, of ending it all—but it’s impossible to get hold of a weapon, and he can’t think of any other way to kill himself, at least not before they figure out what he’s doing and stop him.

 

When they take him to Ross’s office again, they don’t bother with shackles. Steve can barely walk, the soles of his feet still healing from something clever they did with hot scalpels. His ribs and hip bones stick out grotesquely, his skin stretched over them like cheap paper. Ross’s office is the same, except that it’s raining outside, and the calendar on the wall behind the desk declares it to be May. He doesn’t bother trying to look anything other than defeated; it’s what they want, anyhow, and he’s got no strength left for pride.

“Well, Rogers, I’ve gotten good reports of your behavior,” says Ross. “You appear to have passed all our tests with flying colors.”

Steve looks at him in disbelief, too-long bangs falling into his eyes. _Tests? Are you really still going to pretend?_

“I have cleared you to begin training,” Ross continues blithely. “We hope to have you mission-ready within the next two months.”

“Sir?” He doesn’t understand. _Training? Mission ready?_

“We’ve decided to integrate you back into the Army,” says Ross. He sounds over-patient, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dull pupil. “You will be assigned to a special-ops team, and allowed to go on missions—provided, of course, that your good behavior continues.”

And Steve knows, he _knows_ , that this was their plan all along, to make him so miserable that he’ll agree to anything—that he’ll think doing their dirty work is some kind of treat. The problem is, it’s working. He can’t think of anything better than seeing the sky again, breathing air that hasn’t been cycled through a thousand concrete halls. He doesn’t care what else they make him do, if they’ll just let him feel the sun on his face again.

“Yes, sir,” he says, uncaring, and the prospect of leaving that cell, that underground _hell_ hole, is so tantalizing that he nearly trembles with it.

“The Asset will commence your training tomorrow,” says Ross. “Don’t disappoint me, Captain.”

“No, sir.”

He’s guided, stumbling, back to his cell, and later they give him more food than he’s had in days, and allow him hours upon hours of unbroken sleep. He knows they’re manipulating him. It doesn’t stop him from actually crying with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I have OPINIONS on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I try not too project to much, but I can't imagine Steve would approve of bombing civilians, so.... yeah.  
> The Ave Maria in English goes as follows:  
> "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.  
> Blessed art thou among women,  
> and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  
> Holy Mary, Mother of God,  
> pray for us sinners,  
> now and in the hour of our death. Amen."  
> When Steve was growing up, Catholic masses would still have been conducted in Latin, and he probably would be familiar with the most basic Latin prayers, the Ave Maria and the Pater Noster (Our Father).


	3. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: non-graphic torture, suicidal ideation

_"A body can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said."_

\-- _Anne of Green Gables_ , by L. M. Montgomery

Training with Soldat goes much better than Steve expected. At first, they simply spar, getting a feel for each other’s fighting style, and Steve realizes quickly that he’s outmatched: he’s not bad at hand-to-hand combat, but Soldat is in a class by himself. He moves with a cat’s grace, silent and quick, striking with all the speed and precision of a snake, or a falcon stooping on its prey. He is strong and brutal, efficient and elegant, and Steve knows that if this were a real combat situation, he would already be dead.

In a weird way, it’s sort of thrilling, like learning to paint from DaVinci. Whatever else might be said of him, Soldat is a master of his craft.

After those first few bouts, Soldat begins to teach him. Most of Steve’s technique comes from long-ago boxing lessons from Bucky, some self-defense learned from Peggy, and whatever tricks Dugan and the rest of them could teach him, gleaned from bar-room brawls and back-alley scraps. Soldat teaches him new ways of punching and kicking, how to block and duck and use every part of his body as a weapon, relying on skill as well as strength. He learns to fall and roll and regain his feet in one smooth motion, to land a flip and dodge a blow and use his opponent’s momentum against him.

To his surprise, Soldat is a good teacher, always pushing him but never going too far, endlessly patient and perfectly controlled. He doesn’t talk much, but he manages to explain things in a way that Steve understands, anyway. As the days go by, the blank look fades from his eyes, and Steve learns to read his emotions through the barest of hints: the way his brows draw down when he is unhappy, or together when he is confused; the way his eyes narrow in concentration, widen in surprise, or crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

Steve discovers the latter when he _finally_ masters a particular throw and dumps Soldat on his ass; he stands over him, panting in surprise and triumph, and is shocked all over again when Soldat stares up at him with that hint of a smile, and something like pride gleaming in his eyes.

“Well done,” Soldat says. Just that, but his voice is warm, and when Steve helps him up, Soldat claps him on the shoulder, the way a friend might.

After that, he pushes himself harder, hoarding every one of those little crinkle-eyed smiles, every scrap of warmth in Soldat’s voice, every word of his praise. He begins to look forward to their training sessions, not just as a break in the lonely monotony of his cell, but because he enjoys them.

And Steve knows it’s all just another way to get under his skin, he _knows_ this, but… Soldat is the only person here who has ever shown him anything but cruelty, who could even be called _kind_ , at least sometimes, and Steve can’t help liking him. He likes him, because Soldat has clearly been broken and abused, turned into a tool and a weapon and a non-person, and yet his eyes smile when Steve masters a new move, and his eyebrows lower in concern when Steve nearly cracks his spine screwing up a backflip, and he’s the only person in this whole damned building who seems to give a shit about him.

It’s not helped by the fact that his blue-grey eyes are the exact shade that Bucky’s were, or that he moves with an uncanny grace that Steve can only dream of achieving. It doesn’t help that his is the only kind voice Steve has heard since waking from the ice. Steve doesn’t _want_ to like him, but when Soldat pins him to the mat his traitorous heart beats quicker, and he finds himself wondering what the man looks like without the mask, what shapes and sounds his mouth might make if it were visible.

He’s never thought of himself as queer before. He knew he liked women, was attracted to them, and figured that was it. His love for Bucky was platonic, uncomplicated: it was the two of them against the world, always had been, and he’d never looked beyond that. It was natural to love Bucky; almost everyone did, with his sparkling blue eyes and film-star mouth, his confident swagger and quick wit, and the way he smirked when telling a joke.

And if Steve felt a little pang when Bucky came back to their apartment late at night with his tie askew, hair ruffled and lips bitten red, that was natural, too. After all, who wouldn’t be envious of Bucky’s easy charm, the way he effortlessly attracted women’s attention? Especially Steve, who was scrawny and awkward, and sullen because of it. It was even natural for him to be a bit jealous of the girls Bucky went dancing with, or took to the movies or to dinner—after all, Bucky was his best friend, and Steve was used to having something of a monopoly on his free time. It made perfect sense to feel that way.

But now, with the clarity of hindsight, Steve can see that his feelings for Bucky had been—not _more_ , necessarily, but _different_ than what he had told himself for so many years. Falling in love with Peggy blinded him to everything else for a while, but it also opened his eyes, because now he knows what love, romantic love, feels like. He recognizes it in the way his breath catches when Soldat meets his eyes, the tingle of his skin when the other man accidentally brushes his hand. And he recognizes it in the way his eyes used to linger on the angles of Bucky’s face and the strong, lean lines of his body, the little flare of jealousy and hurt when Bucky went out with the same girl a few times in a row, the relief when that girl was cast aside. The delight when Bucky, instead of going out, chose instead to spend his time with Steve, talking or drinking beers or just sitting together in comfortable silence.

He knows, now, precisely what Bucky meant to him, though it’s far too late to act on it. _It wouldn’t have done any good anyway_ , he thinks. He might be queer, but he’s sure Bucky never was. _It doesn’t matter that he never knew,_ he tells himself. _He knew I loved him, just like a brother—that’s good enough. Love is love, anyway, doesn’t matter what kind it is, as long as it’s there._

It’s not as much comfort as he would like it to be.

And the problem of Soldat continues to be a problem, because Steve can’t help but be attracted to him—can’t help _caring_ about him, wanting to help him, to save him somehow.

At night, Steve lies on his thin mattress and tries to ignore the hollow ache of longing in his chest, the helpless need that fills him when he thinks of Soldat’s soft dark hair and long lashes, his broad shoulders and muscular grace. He cannot allow this to compromise him—but he can feel himself being drawn deeper every day.

 

It's not all sparring. They make him run obstacle courses, do calisthenics and various repetitive tasks, endure pain without flinching. If he hesitates or argues, he is punished—with electric shocks and no meals and, often, with more torture. He learns not to question them, to jump or run or lie still on command. When they put a gun in his hands and tell him to shoot a target, he does it automatically, and only remembers later that he could have turned the weapon on himself. He doesn’t know what it means that he didn’t—whether it’s that he still has hope, or that it’s become unthinkable for him to disobey.

The serum makes him heal far faster than an ordinary man, fast enough that most wounds, given a little time, will knit together without leaving a trace. Steve heals, and heals, until even _his_ body cannot repair itself, and his skin is laced with scars like filigree.

He wants to believe that he’s still his own person, that there’s still a spark of defiance in him, that he’s only biding his time. Kneeling for hours on broken glass or curled on a concrete floor with a hose spraying icy water on him, he can feel that spark fading to nothing.

Defiance hurts; it’s so much easier to just comply.

 

It’s the beginning of August before Steve is summoned to Ross’s office again. The lieutenant giving him the news hands him a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes.

“Put those on. Make yourself presentable. You have ten minutes.”

“Understood,” he says automatically, and is back in his cell with the door shut before it hits him what’s happening.

They’ve given him clothes—and not just any clothes, but an army uniform, complete with a captain’s insignia. It’s a far cry from the green woolen uniforms he’d gotten used to over the past three years, but it’s… a uniform. A _uniform_ , when he’s been wearing nothing but those baggy cotton trousers since he woke up here.

He traces the silver bars on the shoulder with trembling fingers, half-believing it will vanish in front of his eyes.

Then he remembers that he only has ten minutes, and hurries to get dressed.

He does the best he can, under the circumstances, washing quickly at the sink and drying himself with the cotton pants. There’s nothing to be done about the scraggly beard that’s grown in over the past few months, or the length of his hair, but he tries to put it in some kind of order with his fingers. They allowed him a shower in an actual shower stall yesterday, so he’s not as disgusting as he probably would be otherwise.

He’s not sure why he really cares, when he stopped paying attention to his appearance months ago, but something about having real clothes—having a _uniform_ again—makes him want to put in the effort. It’s as though wearing a captain’s bars will somehow make everything else disappear.

 _Still_ , he thinks as he knots his tie as best he can without a mirror, _maybe this means something. Maybe this means they’ll let me out_ …

The idea of it fills him with both excitement and nervousness. What if he screws up, and they throw him back in this cell to rot away here? What if they decide he’s not ready? What if…

 _What if this is all a ploy_? he thinks, with a sinking feeling. _What if this is just to get my hopes up, then crush them again?_

Before he can follow that line of thought any further, the cell door is opening again, the lieutenant gesturing to him impatiently.

“Come on, Rogers, we don’t have all day.”

He follows the man and another soldier through the halls to Ross’s office, dread and anticipation drumming through him in equal measure. For once, Soldat hasn’t joined them; he doesn’t know whether that’s a good or bad sign, or whether it means anything at all.

When he finally enters the office, he finds that Ross is not alone; there’s a tall black man with an eye patch seated next to the desk, apparently deep in conversation with him. Even at a glance, Steve can tell he’s not a man to cross.

He stands at attention, waiting to be acknowledged as the other two men appraise him openly. Steve wonders what they see—a model soldier or a broken prisoner, or an automaton capable only of following orders?

For a moment, Erskine’s words float across his mind: _Not a perfect soldier, but a good man._ He is suddenly, achingly glad that Erskine cannot see him like this, willing to do almost anything for the prospect of a full meal, a hot shower, or even the absence of pain. He’s never been a perfect soldier, and he’s never felt further from being a good man. Or any kind of person at all.

“Captain Rogers,” says Ross at last. “Let me introduce you to Nicholas Fury, Director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

For one horrible moment, Steve has no idea how he’s supposed to respond—should he say something to Fury? Respond only to Ross? Make eye contact? Look down? For the past five months, his entire life has been dictated by orders. In their absence, he finds himself strangely bereft.

Luckily, Fury solves the problem for him by standing and offering his hand. “Captain Rogers. Good to finally meet you.”

Steve shakes his hand, grateful to not be left guessing. “The pleasure is all mine.”

He hopes it’s an adequate response; he has no idea who Fury actually is, what the Strategic Homeland Whatsit is, or why the man is here. He doesn’t know what Ross _wants_ from him, and anxiety claws at his belly.

“I’ll admit, I was quite… _surprised_ to hear the Army had dug you out of the ice,” says Fury, casting a sideways look at Ross. “But I guess miracles do happen.”

“Yes, sir,” says Steve, still struggling to catch up. There’s a weird tension between Ross and Fury, though it’s subtle; most people probably wouldn’t even pick up on it, but Steve has spent five months learning to read the body language of his captors, watching for the barest movement of Soldat’s eyes to tell him what the other man is thinking or feeling. He can see the way Fury’s just a little too casual, a little too friendly, covering a hidden anger, while Ross has an air of restrained triumph.

“No miracles, Nick, just good tech and dedication,” says Ross, and again, there’s that gleam in his eye that speaks of some malicious pleasure.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” says Fury, and turns back to Steve. “So, Captain. I’m here to talk to you about the Avengers Initiative.”

“Sir?”

“The Avengers are a group of individuals with… unusual skills, shall we say. What I’m trying to create is a team that can deal with situations beyond the scope of ordinary military and civilian forces. Aliens, robots, mad scientists, that sort of thing.”

 _Aliens and robots_? Steve thinks. _What is this,_ Amazing Tales _?_

“Director Fury has asked us to loan you to this… team… for the time being,” Ross cuts in. “You’d be running missions under his jurisdiction.”

“Yes, sir,” says Steve slowly. He’s not sure why they’re bothering to tell him this. It’s not as if he has any choice in the matter.

“So, are you in?” asks Fury.

Steve looks past him to Ross, who says, “You can have him for two weeks, for training purposes. We can discuss more long-term arrangements then.”

“Well, Captain?” Fury says.

Steve doesn’t know why he’s pretending to give him a choice, but he answers anyway. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. I’ll expect you at the Triskelion tomorrow at 9 for debriefing.”

Steve doesn’t know what the Triskelion is, or where it is, so he just says, “Yes, sir,” and hopes that’s enough.

“Nick, if you don’t mind, I’d just like a word with Rogers in private,” says Ross. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside…?”

“Of course not. See you tomorrow, Captain.”

Once the door has swung closed behind him, Steve turns back to Ross. He doesn’t dare ask what the hell just happened, just waits, his face as impassive as he can make it. He can’t let Ross know that his heart is practically beating out of his chest at the prospect of leaving this place.

“Your appearance is disgraceful, Rogers,” says Ross. “I want that beard shaved off at once.”

Steve isn’t sure how he was supposed to shave when he doesn’t have access to a razor, but knows better than to say so. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Ross sits back in his chair, evidently appeased. “I’m lending you to Fury on a trial basis only. If you put one toe out of line—if you disobey, if you even _hesitate_ to follow orders, you will be _severely_ punished. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fury will be reporting to me on your performance, as will your teammates. Deviance will not be tolerated.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ross regards him with cold eyes. “You will be fitted with a subcutaneous tracker and a remotely-operated sedative. If our tracker shows you to be anywhere outside the locations set out in your mission parameters—if we see so much as a _hint_ that you are deviating from instructions—we will activate the sedative and retrieve you. And believe you me, if that happens, you will not be seeing daylight again for a _very_ long time. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

Steve is only too happy to escape, barely looking at Fury as he hurries through the outer office to the halls outside. The same guards are there to escort him, but he hardly notices them. He walks back to his cell in a daze, unsure of what to think or how to feel. Logically, he knows that he’s only going from one sort of prison to another, but the prospect of going on missions, of being part of a team, feels as much like freedom as anything he’s likely to get.

 

Soldat comes to get him the next morning, stoic as ever in his all-black gear. Steve is suddenly, sharply aware that he has no idea whether he’ll ever see the man again. It makes something twist in his chest, sharp as a knife to the ribs.

“Come to see me off?” he jokes weakly.

Unsurprisingly, Soldat doesn’t respond directly. But he seems less calm than usual, darting little looks at Steve with a furrowed brow as they walk along, until finally he says, “You will—follow orders? When you’re—there?”

Steve sighs inwardly, trying to keep his disappointment from showing on his face. Of course Soldat just wants to make sure he’ll behave. “Yeah,” he says, as neutrally as possible. “I’ll behave myself.”

Soldat nods, but he still looks worried. “As long as you obey,” he says quietly, “they won’t hurt you.” He nods again, as though trying to convince himself. “They won’t—they won’t hurt you.”

And Steve realizes that Soldat is worried _for him_ , that this is his way of trying to keep Steve safe, in the only way he knows how.

“It’s alright, buddy,” he murmurs, mindful of the cameras hidden everywhere. “I’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

They draw near to the elevator, and Steve halts, turning to face Soldat. “I wish you were coming with me,” he says.

The other man’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Why?”

 _Because you’re my friend,_ Steve wants to say, but that’s not precisely true. _Because I care about you_ , might be more accurate, or even, _because I’m scared of what happens next._ He knows he can’t say any of that, though; Soldat wouldn’t understand, and anyway, it’s too risky to air his feelings here. Instead, he settles on the sort of thing he might have said to Bucky, a few months or seventy years ago.

“Guess I just got used to seeing your ugly mug.”

Soldat _stares_ at him, and for a moment, Steve thinks he’s made a huge mistake. The other man raises a hand to his own face, as though confirming that that is, in fact, what Steve was referring to. Then his eyes crinkle into a smile.

Slowly, as though speaking a foreign language, he says, “You… _like…_ this mug.”

Steve smiles back. “I do.”

Soldat lowers his eyes, as though he doesn’t know what to say, or how to react.

Steve takes pity on him, and claps him on the shoulder. “I guess we’d better get going, huh?”

They don’t say anything else until they exit the elevator on an unfamiliar floor, where several soldiers are waiting for them. They blindfold him, and the last thing Steve sees before the cloth obscures his vision is Soldat, hovering close by with an almost desperate look in his eyes.

 

He ends up in a car, driving though what sounds like heavy traffic. The engine makes a different tone than he’s used to, simultaneously quieter and high-pitched, a buzz rather than a rumble. Unable to see, he focuses on his other senses: an odd, artificial smell that he can’t quite place, the blare of strange, wrong-sounding horns outside, the smooth plastic of the door beneath his hand. Every turn takes him by surprise, throwing him to one side or the other, and he ends up holding onto the door handle and bracing his feet against the floor, as though he’s riding a roller coaster rather than sitting inside a car.

It’s a relief when they finally (apparently) get to their destination, and the blindfold is removed. For the first time, he sees the interior of the car, and is struck by the strangeness of it—everything coated in plastic or vinyl rather than metal or wood. Even the roof is a different shape.

“Come on, Rogers, let’s go,” says one of the guards—there are two, not counting the driver—and he clambers out, a little unsteadily, into some kind of giant, underground garage. The smells of damp concrete and exhaust fumes hit his nostrils, and he feels himself tense. For all the time they’ve just spent driving around, it feels as though he’s right back in Ross’s prison again.


	4. The Avengers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicidal ideation. 
> 
> Thank you guys for all your kind comments! They really mean a lot to me. :)

_“A hero? Like you? You're a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle.”_

–Tony Stark, _The Avengers_

 

“Captain Rogers, I’d like to introduce you to your teammates,” says Fury. He’s just spent an hour briefing Steve on the team, on SHIELD, and on the 21st century. Now, they’re standing in some kind of conference room, all metal and glass, as alien as anything Steve has ever seen.

He never thought he’d miss the knee-deep mud of the Western Front, but apparently, even that can change.

“Natasha Romanoff,” says Fury, pointing at a woman with red hair—the only woman on the team. Steve had thought that all the equal rights stuff he’d read about in _Wikipedia_ would mean a more equal distribution of gender on the team, too, but apparently not.

“Ma’am,” he says, nodding politely, and her eyes narrow.

“Don’t call me that.”

 _Fuck_. Five seconds in, and he’s already fucked up. “I’m sorry, m—sorry,” he says hastily. “What would you prefer…?”

“Agent Romanoff.” There’s something challenging in the way she says it, like she’s daring him to argue.

He doesn’t dare. “Pleased to meet you, Agent Romanoff.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, just watches him with cold eyes, like a cat deciding whether or not to kill its prey.

“Doctor Bruce Banner.”

The small, brown-skinned man with greying curls gives a little wave from the far end of the table. Despite his briefing, it’s difficult to believe that this unassuming man could turn into a monster like the Hulk. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Steve echoes, hoping that’s the right response.

“Thor, son of Odin.”

The imposing blonde man sitting nearest to the head of the table gets up, clasping Steve’s hand in a bruising grip. “Finally we meet, good Captain! I have heard many tales of your daring exploits!”

Steve smiles weakly, taken aback by the man’s—god’s—enthusiasm. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Please, call me Thor!” he booms, still holding Steve’s hand. “You are very welcome to our band of warriors.”

“Thanks,” he says helplessly, unsure of the protocol. “I’m—honored to join you.”

He’s not really sure what he’s supposed to do, here, if he’s supposed to just shut up and take orders, or if he’s expected to act like a normal member of the team. He doesn’t know what’s expected, what will get him punished or sent back to Ross. Will they report everything he says and does, or only his missteps? If they accept him, will Ross let him stay?”

“Give him his hand back, Thor,” says the last man in the room, a stocky guy with blue eyes, a crooked nose, and light brown hair. “You’re cutting off his circulation.”

“My apologies, Captain!” Thor shouts cheerfully. “I hope I did not hurt you?”

Steve glances at his fingers, all of which have been broken at least once in the past three months. He wonders if Thor knows how many injuries he’s sustained, how much it takes, now, to make him scream.

“No apology necessary,” he says, and the words are stiff, stilted, but he doesn’t know how to respond, anymore, doesn’t know how to act like a real human being. He’s not sure he still believes he is one.

“Just don’t try to arm wrestle him,” says the brown-haired man cheerfully. “I’m Clint, by the way, since no one seems interested in introducing me. Clint Barton.”

“Steve Rogers,” he responds automatically.

“Yeah, we know,” says a new voice.

He turns to see a short, light-skinned man with black hair and eyes striding toward him, and for a moment, just a moment, he thinks: _Howard._ Then his brain catches up, and he remembers his briefing—that Howard’s been dead for years, that his son has taken over the family business, is leading the Avengers, is _funding_ the Avengers….

This is the one person he’s actually been looking forward to meeting, the only person he thinks might actually be sympathetic to him, might even _help_ him if he’s lucky.

He squares his shoulders, raises his chin, smiles with as much sincerity as he can. “You must be Tony Stark,” he says, holding out his hand. “I knew your father.”

Tony stuffs his hands in his pockets, a blatant rejection of the offered handshake. His eyes are sharp, calculating, his smile closer to a sneer. “You knew my father? Really? He never mentioned.”

“Oh,” says Steve. He tries to keep the hurt from showing on his face, in his voice, tries to tell himself he’s being stupid. It’s not like he and Howard were particularly close. Why should he have told his son about Steve? Maybe it wasn’t even personal—maybe he just didn’t like talking about the war. Steve knew a lot of guys, growing up, who hadn’t liked to talk about the first war—Bucky’s father was one of them. He realizes he’s still holding his hand out, like an idiot, and quickly lowers it.

“Of course,” he says, and tries to smile again. He doesn’t think he’s particularly successful. “I’m sure he had better—better things to talk about. Than, um. Anyway. I was sorry to hear that he, that he…”

“Died,” Tony supplies, voice sharp. “Old news, Cap. World’s moved on—or hadn’t you noticed?”

Steve bites his lip against the hurt and loneliness stabbing him with every word. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, helplessly. “I wouldn’t have brought it up, I just—I thought he might’ve—” _remembered me_ , he completes in his head.

“Wow, did they not have sarcasm in the forties?” says Tony. His tone is, if anything, even nastier than before.

Steve looks at him in bewilderment, trying to figure out what he did wrong. Clearly he shouldn’t have mentioned Howard, but he has no idea why.

“Oh my God. Yeah, I know who you are. _Everyone_ knows who you are. My dear old dad never shut up about you. Captain America this, Captain America that. The two of you were real tight, weren’t you?”

“… Yes?” Steve ventures. He doesn’t think they were, not really; they had known each other, and more or less gotten along, but the truth was that they had seen very little of each other over the course of the war. This doesn’t seem the best time to mention that, though.

“That was rhetorical,” says Tony, and brushes past him. “Are you always this slow on the uptake? Go on, sit down, we don’t have all day. Fury, you’re going to brief us, right? And I do mean brief.”

 

 

The briefing is excruciatingly awkward, as is the car ride over to the “Avengers Compound”, a fortress-like training facility and living quarters on the outskirts of Washington. Tony begs off the tour of the Compound, claiming he has “stuff to do”, and Steve is guiltily relieved to see the back of him.

Despite his discomfort, Steve has to admit he’s impressed. There’s a giant gymnasium with all kinds of obstacle courses and climbing walls, shooting and archery ranges, an armory stocked with gadgets and weapons so advanced they might as well be magic, multiple labs and workshops for Bruce and Tony’s use, and an indoor pool and hot tub. The living quarters cover the entire fourth floor of the facility, and includes more rooms than can possibly be necessary for a group of six people who’ll only be living there part-time.

“Stark designed this place himself,” says Clint. “That’s why it’s so…” He waves a hand, the gesture encompassing soaring white ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, steel accents and state-of-the-art technology. “Stark-ey.”

“So this isn’t, um, the norm for this century?” Steve asks. The question is a slight risk, but Clint seems friendly enough, and he’s not military. He doesn’t think one question will get him in trouble.

Clint laughs. “Absolutely not. My normal place is an apartment building, and let me tell you, that place is a shithole. I mean, it’s _my_ shithole, so I like it, but. Stark probably wouldn’t even set foot in it unless he could take a de-con bath after.”

“De..?”

“Decontamination. There’s a whole room for it, downstairs—for when we run into stuff like radiation, or alien goop, or mad scientist shenanigans, so we don’t get some kind of weird disease or something.”

 _Alien goop? Radiation?_ Steve tries to keep his expression neutral. “I see.”

“Cap,” Fury says, and he automatically straightens. “I’ll be here for your first training session tomorrow, but before I go, I wanted to give you this.”

He gestures at the agent he’d brought with him, a balding white man whose name Steve has already forgotten. The agent lays a large, padded case on the table and steps back, eyes flicking between Steve and the case with barely concealed excitement.

“Open it,” says Fury.

An order. Steve swallows his nervousness, holding on hard to his calm exterior as he approaches it. The case unzips easily, and doesn’t appear to be booby trapped. He raises the lid.

Inside, nestled on a foam insert, is his shield.

For a moment, he just stares at it in disbelief. Then he looks up at Fury.

“The Army found it when they found you. I was able to convince them to lend it to us for your missions for the Avengers.” He smiles. The expression is not a reassuring one. “After all, we can’t have Captain America without his shield.”

 

That night, he lies in bed in the room they’ve given him, staring at the city lights visible beyond the bulletproof window, and tries to feel… _something_ about what’s happening. Relief, or hope, or anger at being used by a new set of people. But the fire that fueled him for so long— that pushed him to survive his childhood and the war, that sent him after Schmidt’s stronghold after Bucky died—is gone. There is nothing left there, defiance or anger or curiosity, only the empty, aching space inside his ribcage.

He doesn’t know why he’s here, why Ross lent him to these people; he doesn’t know what any of them want from him.

He doesn’t care.

It’s been a long time since he knew anything close to happiness, and he stopped looking for means of escape months ago, knowing it to be useless. There is nothing here for him in this century, no hope of escape, not a single person who cares about him. Since he woke up on that table, he’s mostly just been surviving, one day to the next, but now it hits him with sudden clarity that _this is it._ This is his life, and this—a bed in a bedroom, a window, a kitchen with free access to food, and the threat of torture and a cell if he doesn’t comply—is about as good as it’s going to get.

The years spin out ahead of him in his imagination, bleak and monotonous, for all his situation seems to have improved.

 _This is it_ , he repeats to himself. He’s so tired, down to his bones, and he wishes he could just stop thinking—to be blank, like Soldat, caring only about what his orders are, and how to carry them out.

It hurts to think about the future, and even more to remember the past—to remember who he used to be, to know that he is not that person anymore.

 _At least Bucky isn’t around to see me like this_ , he thinks, and the thought doesn’t even pain him anymore; he’s thought it so many times, it’s left a well-worn groove in his brain.

He’s so tired.

He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, at the patch of light reflecting from somewhere outside, and breathes with lungs that no longer rattle and stutter and halt, and tries to stop thinking.

 

 

 

In his dreams, he’s standing in the apartment he used to share with Bucky: one room with a curtain across it to hide their beds, and the table that was his mother’s squeezed in between the wall and the stove. There’s something off about it, though, something wrong, and he turns around, looking for the source of the dissonance.

Peggy is standing behind him, smiling. “You owe me a dance,” she says.

“I can’t,” he tells her. “There’s something wrong.”

It’s too quiet, too still, and Bucky’s not here, where is Bucky—

“Dance with me, Steve,” she repeats, and they’re in the arrivals hall in Grand Central, but there are no people, and there’s music playing somewhere, loud and harsh, a tune he recognizes but doesn’t know the words to.

“I can’t, I have to find Bucky.”

“You can’t find him,” says Peggy, and her face is stern and cold. “You didn’t even bury him.”

Desperation claws at his throat like icy fingers, and he tries to pull away, but Peggy’s grip is as strong and unrelenting as vibranium. “Peggy, please, you have to help me—”

“Dance with her, Rogers,” says a new voice, and Ross is standing next to them, holding the remote. “You know what happens if you don’t comply.”

Peggy clutches at him, and the music swells, and Steve tries to dance, but his feet are as heavy as concrete blocks, and the music sounds like air raid sirens. He can’t keep the beat, can’t keep his balance, but he can’t stop, Peggy won’t let him stop—

Soldat is screaming, voice hoarse and wrecked, and Steve needs to help him, he needs to go, he needs to find Bucky...

“Dance,” says Peggy, and he moves his feet unthinkingly, legs and arms jerking like a puppet with an inexperienced operator. _I have to comply_ , he thinks, and gasps for breath, asthma constricting his airways and seizing his lungs. _I have to comply_.

He wakes in the dark, chest heaving, trapped in the blankets and covered in sweat. Gingerly, he extricates himself from the bed and stumbles to the en suite bathroom, where he turns up the shower as hot as he can stand.

With the water pounding around him, he slumps against the ceramic tile and tries to relax. _It was just a dream. Just a dream. You’re in Avengers’ Compound. It’s 2014._ It doesn’t help. Awake or asleep, he’s still stuck in a nightmare.

 

The Avengers are an odd bunch; to Steve, they don’t really feel like a _team_ , at least, not in the way that the Howlies were a team. They train together, and more or less live together at the compound, but Steve thinks they’re very much a group of individuals who just happen to be in the same place at the same time.

Natasha reminds him of a cat, alternately charming, withdrawn, and menacing; she tries on different personas like hats, and quite clearly trusts no one except Clint, with whom she seems to have some kind of understanding.

Clint is uniformly friendly, in a way that makes Steve think it’s all an act; he volunteers very little information about himself, and spends a lot of his time sitting in the rafters and on top of bookshelves, out of range of conversation. He’s nearly deaf, and is supposed to wear hearing aids designed by Tony, but Steve is pretty sure he leaves them out, or off, most of the time. He can’t really blame him—if he had a choice, he’d probably try to get out of interacting with the others, too.

Bruce tends to be quiet, withdrawn until he gets talking about science or technology, at which point he starts using phrases like ‘neutrino-oscillation’ and waving his hands a lot. He’s also easily irritated, but usually only by Fury or Natasha—somehow, he never seems to be phased by Tony, despite the latter’s teasing.

Thor is enthusiastic, confident, and sometimes condescending. He seems to take great pride in being part of the Avengers, but also spends a lot of time bragging about his own daring exploits. As far as Steve can gather, this is a traditional pastime in Asgard, something between entertainment and competition, but it’s hard not to find it wearing, especially when Thor tries to prod the others into boasting about their own adventures.

And then there’s Tony. Tony, who is as abrasive as he is brilliant, constantly goading everyone, always watching for some misstep or weakness, consumed with his own genius and careless of anyone’s feelings but his own. He’s supposed to be their leader, but he seems to have no idea how to deal with people if he’s not flirting with or provoking them. He loses focus, loses his temper, and harps on and on if anyone makes a mistake, all while constantly trying to prove he’s the best. And he seems to really hate Steve.

They got off on the wrong foot, Steve knows; he thinks it’s because he mentioned Howard, but he’s not sure why what he said was so offensive. All he knows is that Tony took offense, and has decided it’s his mission to make Steve as miserable as he can.

 

On his second day with the Avengers, Steve wakes up at the first hint of dawn, since he’s become used to sleeping and waking based on whether the lights are on in his cell. He makes himself a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, and goes to sit in the common room, letting himself appreciate the relative spaciousness and comfort of his new prison. He’s finished his meal and is watching the sky turn pink above the Washington skyline when he hears a voice from the hallway.

“— _worse_ than I expected. The guy’s got a stick up his ass the size of the Washington Monument. Like, I get it, he’s a fossil, but _Jesus_ , he’s more like a grandpa than my actual grandpa.”

It’s Tony’s voice, and, Steve realizes with a rush of dread, he’s talking about _him_.

“I mean, seriously, just ‘cause the guy can throw a metal frisbee around, he thinks he’s better than everybody else—”

Steve doesn’t know what a ‘frisbee’ is, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Tony’s referring to. He huddles in his chair, filled with misery and resentment and hoping that Tony and whoever he’s talking to will go away before they find him there.

When Tony walks into view, however, he’s alone. “Okay, yeah, Pep, I know, but—” He pauses, apparently listening, and Steve realizes he’s talking on the telephone. The new kind of telephone, that looks like a small metal rectangle, and can apparently do just about anything, from predicting the weather to finding information on any topic in the world.

“I’m not _jealous_ , I just don’t get what the big deal is. We don’t need extra muscle, we’ve already got Thor and the Hulk—and if the guy has a brain, I sure as hell haven’t seen it yet.”

Steve winces, shrinking back into his chair as Tony paces into the kitchen and back again, oblivious to his presence.

“I don’t know what Fury was thinking. I mean, I know I’m no hero, but Rogers? He’s a seventy-year-old lab experiment. Everything special about him came out of a bottle.”

It shouldn’t cut as deep as it does. After everything Steve’s been through in the past few months, Tony Stark’s opinion of him shouldn’t matter at all—his words should be nothing compared to the physical pain inflicted on him on Ross’s orders, or the pain of losing Bucky and Peggy and the Commandoes. _I should be used to this_ , he thinks, but it doesn’t stop the words cutting into him, wrapping around his heart and brain like barbed wire.

 _Everything special about him came out of a bottle_.

It’s not as if he can argue with that. Everything else, the qualities that Peggy and Bucky and Erskine saw in him, has been stripped away. He’s got nothing left—only the body the serum gave him.

Steve Rogers might as well have died in the ice.

He presses his hands to his eyes, digging the heels of his palms against his cheekbones as he tries to regulate his breathing. It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, to be so upset by this. He’s been through a _war_ , for God’s sake, this is _nothing_ , and to be sitting here feeling like he can’t breathe, with his stomach in knots, just because of a few unkind words is—is—

Tony is coming back, now munching a banana as he talks. “Alright, okay, point taken. So how’s Kyoto? Do any sightseeing, or is it all business?”

He throws himself onto one of the couches, sideways to where Steve sits, frozen, by the window.

“Well, that’s a shame. Was he cute, at least? Not even a little? Aww, Pep, you say the nicest things...”

There’s no way to leave without alerting him to Steve’s presence, and nowhere to hide without moving. Steve stays as still as possible, wishing himself dead or at least a million miles away from here.

“Oh, okay. Well, text me then—okay. Okay. Love you too. Bye.” He tosses the phone on the couch and stands up, yawning and stretching, looks toward the window, and freezes as his eyes meet Steve’s.

Steve thinks he knows exactly how a rabbit feels when cornered by a fox, or a frog in the beam of a flashlight. He stays perfectly still, staring at Tony as various shades of surprise, mortification, and annoyance pass over the other man’s face.

The silence stretches out, and Steve thinks there ought to be a clock ticking, or crickets chirping, in the background, but there’s nothing: clocks these days are soundless, and no outside noises filter through the thick walls and soundproofed windows.

“You been here this whole time?” Tony says at last, gruffly.

Steve nods.

There’s another long pause, during which he realizes that Tony might think he was spying, or sneaking around, or—any number of activities which could get him in trouble with the Avengers, get him sent back to Ross.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I was just—already here, and I didn’t know what to do....”

Tony shoves his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for what I said,” he says abruptly. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s all true. You got the proverbial eavesdropper’s—fate, or whatever, so. I don’t really care.”

His voice is hard, angry, like he’s expecting a fight. A few months or seventy years ago, Steve thinks, he would have given him one. But it’s hard to summon up any anger when he’s so miserable; when he feels so acutely the truth of Tony’s words.

“Why am I here, then?” he asks at last. “If you don’t want me to be?”

Tony pauses at that, momentarily taken aback, then shrugs with elaborate casualness. “Not my decision,” he says. “It was Fury’s call. I thought the five of us were doing just fine on our own, but,” sneering, “apparently the prospect of having _Captain America_ on our team was too much to resist.”

“I see.” He doesn’t know what else to say to that, and Tony doesn’t wait for him to figure it out.

“Well, I can’t hang around all day. Go back to doing... whatever it was you were doing. Nobly contemplating the soul of America, or whatever.” With that, he stalks out of the room, leaving Steve confused and wounded in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the frisbee wasn't sold as a toy until 1948, when it was first marketed as a "Flying Saucer". BUT university students in the Bridgeport, Connecticut area started playing catch with pie tins from the local Frisbie Pie Company as early as the 1870s. For the purposes of this fic, I'm assuming that particular trend remained fairly local to Bridgeport, and Steve probably wouldn't be in the habit of buying pies anyway (too expensive!).


	5. Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon-typical violence

_“And what you thought you came for_

_Is only a shell, a husk of meaning_

_From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled_

_If at all. Either you had no purpose_

_Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured_

_And is altered in fulfillment.”_

\--“No. 4 Little Gidding”, T.S. Eliot

 

They go on their first mission a week after Steve’s arrival. It’s what Fury refers to as a “milk run”, taking down a drug cartel in Juárez.

“Hulk and Hawkeye will guard the perimeter, the rest of us’ll take the inside,” says Tony. “Everyone keep an eye out for this guy—” calling up a projection of a scowling man with a thick mustache and an oddly delicate nose. “Ricardo Loera Fuentes, aka ‘El Perro’.”

“‘The Dog’?” Clint snorts. “Real original.”

“No need to tell me,” says Tony. “Anyway, apparently he’s the head of this whole shebang, so he’s the one we gotta watch out for. SHIELD wants him alive, so no itchy trigger fingers, got it?”

Steve, who has learned that “cut off one head, two more take its place” applies to more than just HYDRA, wonders whether capturing the cartel’s figurehead will really solve anything. They’re not doing anything to dismantle the system that allows cartels to operate in the first place—poverty, corruption, and, oh yeah, a big market for illegal drugs north of the Mexican border. He doesn’t say anything, though.

His opinions are worth exactly nothing here.

“What about the grunts?” Natasha asks. “We taking them alive, too?”

Tony makes a face. “I mean, ideally, but these are the bad guys. I doubt anyone’s gonna cry if some of them don’t survive.”

“Somebody might,” says Clint. His tone and expression give nothing away; he’s going through his arrows, checking each one for defects before sliding it into his quiver. “We don’t know that everyone in there is there because they want to be.”

“Then aim for the kneecaps, Angry Bird,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “As long as we win, I don’t care.” His sharp gaze lands on Steve. “What about you, Cap? Any objections? This thing too sordid for your delicate sensibilities?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, Mr. Stark.”

“Oh my God, do _not_ call me that, at _least_ drop the ‘Mister’ if you’re gonna be all formal. Okay, so we all good? Any questions? No? Then let’s head out.”

 

The mission goes smoothly. There are three entrances to the building; Steve kicks down the door of one, with Natasha right behind him, while Thor and Tony break into the other two. The narrow hallway immediately fills with gunfire. Steve shelters himself and Natasha behind the shield while she returns fire.

Within a minute, she’s dropped all their assailants. Steve doesn’t check to see how many of them are still alive. He doesn’t want to know.

Once inside, they clear the place room by room, Steve’s shield ricocheting off walls and ceilings to drop some targets while he kicks and punches others. At his side, Natasha shoots out the kneecaps of two guys while strangling another one with her thighs.

Steve can’t help wincing. He’s been on the receiving end of that particular move. Despite Tony’s insinuations, it wasn’t fun.

By the time they make it to the top, Thor and Tony have cornered Fuentes, and the cleanup team from SHIELD is landing on the roof. The op was as easy as Tony predicted.

Somehow, it makes Steve nervous. He knows this mission was just a way to see how the six of them worked together as a team, to see whether they were ready for more dangerous, complex missions. Still, it feels too easy, and he’s learned the hard way that things that seem too good to be true usually are.

He hangs around uselessly while Tony coordinates with the SHIELD team—or rather, he’s supposed to be coordinating them. Instead, he seems to mostly be antagonizing them, making everything take twice as long, with far more hostility than the situation warrants.

At last, Steve can’t stand it any longer. “Would you like me to go check on Dr. Banner?” he asks Natasha quietly. “It looks like you and Stark have things covered here.”

She raises her eyebrows knowingly. “Tired of Stark’s theatrics already?” she teases. “He hasn’t even gotten going yet.”

Steve shrugs, uncomfortable. “I just want to be useful.”

“And checking on Banner would be very useful.” She tilts her head, considering him. “You know, somehow I thought you’d be more of the take-charge type.”

“That’s not really my place here,” says Steve carefully.

“Hm. You’re smarter than you look, Rogers.” She relents all at once, relaxing her stance and lowering her gaze. “Okay, you go take care of Banner, I’ll wrangle Stark.”

“Yes, ma’a—yes, Agent Romanoff,” he answers, and jogs down the stairs with the sound of her snicker in his ears.

 

To Steve’s surprise, both Tony and Fury declare themselves pleased by the team’s performance, and Steve is given a permanent place on the Avengers’ roster—subject to Ross’s consent and Steve’s continued good performance, of course. Somehow, it doesn’t make him any less anxious. He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

When his two weeks are up, he goes back to Ross, back to his cell, back to Soldat. There’s only one of those things that don’t fill him with dread.

Luckily, Ross seems pleased with the results of his stint with the Avengers, and he isn’t punished. Steve doesn’t like the predatory gleam in his eyes when Steve delivers his report, but he knows better than to ask questions. As long as Ross lets him keep going back, he can’t find it in himself to care about whatever else the man is planning.

Soldat makes him practice everything he’s learned, questioning him in a manner Steve can only describe as _fussing_.

“You complied with all orders? They approved of your performance? You have been training regularly?” he asks, and Steve has to suppress a smile at the clear anxiety in his voice.

As warped as it is, he can’t help but take some gratification in Soldat’s concern. It’s so like the way Bucky used to mother-hen him; even during the war, he used to get after him about eating enough, or wearing thick enough socks, or whether all his equipment was in perfect condition. At the time, it had been as annoying as it was endearing; now, Steve would give anything to have Bucky nagging at him again.

“I did exactly as I was told,” he tells Soldat. “They gave me a permanent spot on their team.”

The worried line between Soldat’s eyebrows eases, and his shoulders relax. “We will practice punches and blocks,” he says. “You need to work on your left side.”

Steve nods, raising his fists in preparation. It’s the same drill he’s been practicing with Thor, and he can read his improvement in the approval in Soldat’s eyes.

“Well done,” he says, and sets Steve working on a new maneuver, which involves using his legs to take his opponent down at the waist.

That week, Soldat smiles more than Steve has ever seen, his eyes crinkling with pleasure every time they spar. He wonders, not for the first time, what exactly the other man feels for him—something more than indifference, he’s sure, but it could be only the investment of a teacher in a promising student. He doesn’t think it’s just that Soldat might be punished for Steve’s failures—that would surely breed resentment, not the concern and sometimes pride he seems more and more comfortable showing.

Does Soldat miss him when he’s gone? Steve doesn’t know what exactly Soldat does when not training him; it’s possible that he only misses the chance to teach and spar with someone who can match his strength, if not his skill. _It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself, alone in his cell. _It doesn’t matter what either of us feel, not when we’re stuck here. It’s useless to speculate._

After a week of training exercises, Steve is sent back to the Avengers. He tries not to let himself think about Soldat; he already cares too much, and it can only lead to grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I ended up doing a whole lot of research on Mexican drug cartels, and then making up my own scenario out of bits and pieces of things that really happened. For example, there are people with the surnames "Fuentes" and "Loera" associated with the Juarez cartel, but the character I named as a leader is fictional. Also, there was a member of the cartel whose nickname was "El Gato", so I riffed off of that.
> 
> Guys, I appreciate your comments SO MUCH. I'm overwhelmed by the enthusiasm I've been getting for this fic! Thank you. <3


	6. Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sexual harassment, panic attack (see endnotes for further clarification).

_“and you tried to change, didn’t you?_

_closed your mouth more_

_tried to be […] more quiet_

_less volatile, less awake”_

\--“for women who are difficult to love”, Warsan Shire

 

They’re in the quinjet on the way back to D.C. when Tony flops down next to him. Steve nods at him absently, mostly focused on his Starkphone. He’s still figuring out how the technology works in this century, but he’s starting to get the hang of the Internet, and he wants to learn as much as possible before he’s sent back to Ross again.

A warm hand lands on his thigh, and Steve looks up, surprised. Tony is _much_ closer than he’d thought. _Is this—is this normal? Do people do this now?_ He and Bucky had always been very tactile, but usually that was an arm around the shoulders, not—not—

“So… Capsicle,” Tony drawls, grinning. “You got any plans tonight?”

Steve stares at him. It sounds… it sounds like… _You’re imagining things,_ he tells himself firmly. _You’re not used to people, you’re imagining things. Get a grip._ “No,” he says stupidly, and then, because he can’t think of anything else, “Do you?”

“Oh, I can think of a few things.” He slides even closer, positively _leering_ , and Steve has a sudden, vivid image of Howard looking at Peggy the same way, right before she slapped him across the face.

Tony brushes his thumb against Steve’s thigh, and he feels hyperaware of the sensation; it’s been so long, so long since anyone touched him….

“So what d’you say, Cap? Come to my place… have a few drinks…”

_Oh, God,_ Steve thinks hysterically, _he’s propositioning me. This is actually happening._ He glances around, helplessly, but the rest of the team is ignoring them, oblivious or indifferent to his current predicament.

“I…” he stammers. “I don’t think—”

“What’s the matter, Cap? Does this offend your nineteen-forties sensibilities?”

“ _No_ ,” says Steve, anguished. “I just—”

Tony’s hand moves further up his thigh. Steve flinches.

“I’d make it good for you,” he says. “I’ve got a _lot_ of experience.”

Steve’s heart is pounding in his throat, breath catching like it used to when he had asthma. Tony’s—God—trying to proposition him, and he thinks—he’s pretty sure that Ross can’t find fault with him for refusing… but… Tony’s technically the leader of the team. Ross had told him he had to obey orders—and if he offends Tony, Tony could tell Fury, or Ross, anything, and Steve could be kicked off the team, sent back to that cell…

“Tony,” he croaks. “Please don’t—don’t ask me…”

“Stark,” Clint says, from across the seating area, “Cut it out, you’re gonna give him an aneurism.”

And Tony starts laughing.

Steve stares, frozen, as Tony collapses back on the seat, nearly crying with laughter. “Oh my God, you should have seen your face—I can’t believe you fell for that!” He wipes his eyes, pats Steve’s shoulder in a brusque manner entirely different from before. “Don’t worry, Cap, Pepper would kill me if I broke an American icon. Your virtue is safe with me. Holy shit, that was—that was amazing… Hey Russki, did you catch that on video?”

Steve looks over to see that everyone’s looking at them, that the others are laughing too, and feels a horrible sinking sensation in his stomach as he realizes they were all in on it. That this was some kind of joke—maybe they’d wanted to see just how far he’d go, wanting him to make a fool of himself. Or maybe they’d been waiting for him to refuse, so they could report back to Ross, get him thrown off a team they clearly hadn’t wanted him on in the first place…

He stands, face hot, unable to look at any of them. “Excuse me,” he mutters, and flees to the bathroom.

With the door safely locked behind him, he collapses to the floor, pressing his forehead against his knees as he heaves great, sobbing breaths, shuddering with each gulp of air. The place where Tony touched him feels like a brand; he feels violated, dirty, perhaps more so because, for a moment, it had felt so _good_ to be touched by another human being.... As much as it sickens him to be so powerless, part of him longs for contact, no matter what form it’s in.

The truth is, if Tony hadn’t backed down, he probably would have capitulated. He can’t disobey, not if he wants to retain this illusion of freedom, as hollow a life as it is. _I can’t go back to that cell,_ he thinks. _I can’t—I can’t—_

Shakily, he gets to his feet. His mouth tastes like bile, his stomach twisting like a nest of angry snakes. He stares into the mirror. With his long hair and sunken eyes, he scarcely recognizes himself. It makes sense, though, that the outer would match the inner—he’s never felt less like Captain America _or_ Steve Rogers, the fight bled out of him by cold concrete walls.

_What else will I do to keep from going back?_ he wonders. _Let them hurt me? Let them rape me? Kill or steal or torture for them?_

He doesn’t think he would knowingly kill someone innocent, but he’s painfully aware that he has chosen to trust Fury’s word on what they’re doing, to assume the people he says are bad guys are really bad, that the missions are exactly as simple, as morally clear-cut, as Fury says they are. He’s chosen not to ask questions, to think for himself, because to do so might be painful. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to have to choose.

“God help me,” he whispers, and bends to wash the redness from his eyes.

 

Bruce pulls him aside when they leave the aircraft, letting the others go on ahead.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Are you alright?”

Steve nods stiffly. “Fine.”

“It’s just…” He hesitates. “The stuff Tony was saying—you know he was just messing with you, right? He wouldn’t actually—he was just trying to get a rise out of you.”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice echoes oddly in his ears, like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “Sure.”

Bruce looks at him, assessing. “Are you—offended? I mean by the idea of two men… you know.”

Steve takes a breath. His heart is pounding again. “It’s legal now, isn’t it?” he says, and is grateful that his tone remains even, calm, even as his lungs do their best to remind him what having asthma felt like.

“Yeah, but—”

“Then no, I don’t have a problem with it.”

He doesn’t say, _there was a boy once, and I might have loved him a little too much, a little too deeply, but I tried so hard to tell myself it didn’t mean anything._ He doesn’t say, _there was a man with dark hair and a smart mouth, and I would have followed him anywhere, into the jaws of death—and I tried to, too, but it didn’t stick._ Or _There was a woman with brown eyes and a sucker punch that could knock a grown man flat on his ass, and I loved her too, and I would’ve married her, if I hadn’t died first._

He doesn’t say, _there’s a prisoner who doesn’t know his own name, and I think I’m crazy for wanting to save him. I think I’m crazy, and I think maybe I love him._

Bruce’s expression hardens, and Steve knows he’s said something wrong, but he can’t tell what. “Always play by the rulebook, don’t you, Cap?”

God, but he hates it when they call him that. It always feels like they’re mocking him.

He shrugs, maintaining his neutral expression. “I’m a soldier, Dr. Banner. I just follow orders.”

“That’s not what the history books say.”

Is this a test? To see whether he’s—what—thinking about rebelling? Over sodomy being legal, of all things? He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what Bruce’s game is, what any of them are trying to achieve here, unless… are they trying to goad him into disobeying orders, so they can kick him off the team?

“A lot can happen in seventy years,” says Steve, hating himself. “Look, Banner, it’s fine, alright? I’m not sore, I just was—surprised. That’s all.”

Bruce eyes him for a long moment, assessing, before shaking his head a little and clapping him on the shoulder. “Alright, Cap. We’ll see if we can’t get Tony to tone it down a little.”

He stands aside, letting Steve lead the way into the building, and Steve tries to swallow down the sick feeling in his stomach. Surely this is just a joke, surely this infraction—if it was one—isn’t enough to get him sent back to Ross. Bruce didn’t seem too mad, and neither did Tony, and Steve hasn’t confessed anything dangerous.

_They don’t know. They can’t use this against you._ He’s not sure he really believes it.

 

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his room. He sits down on the bed and covers his face, trying to regulate his breathing.

_In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. In, one, two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four._

It calms him a little, but he can still feel the heat of Tony’s hand on his thigh, the miserable coil of tension in his gut. His discomfort, his panic, must have been clearly palpable on the plane, and now… now they’ve sensed a weakness, there’s no reason to think they won’t exploit it all they can.

_You don’t know how to talk to a woman, do you?_ Peggy had said to him once, and it was true, but only sort of. Steve could talk just fine to the nurses who worked with his mother, or the old ladies haggling at the fishmonger’s on Fridays, or the call-girls who sat out on the fire escape of his tenement for a cigarette between clients. He wasn’t interested in them, and they weren’t interested in him, and so he could talk and listen with no awkwardness at all.

The thing is, he doesn’t know what to do with another person’s— interest. No dame had ever looked twice at him, that he could tell, before the serum; it wasn’t something he had to worry about. When he and Bucky went on double dates—inevitably with some unlucky girl Bucky had scared up for him with exaggerated stories of his good looks or intelligence—he always managed to sabotage it somehow, awkward and self-conscious and angry. It was no good going on dates around Bucky, anyhow—he always found himself hanging on Bucky’s words, admiring his looks and his wit and his charm as much as the girls did. How could a girl—or anyone—compete with Bucky?

And then Peggy had looked at him like she _saw_ him, like she _liked_ him, in a way no one except Bucky ever had—except she wasn’t Bucky, she was a woman, a _gorgeous_ woman, and Steve hadn’t known what to do with it. All he’d known was that he liked her, and wanted her, and had no idea how to go about expressing either of those things. It had been a good thing for them both, then, that Peggy had been able to read him like a book.

Or maybe she hadn’t.

When she’d walked in on that Private Lorraine kissing him, she’d been _furious_ —and Steve hadn’t known how to explain that he hadn’t wanted it, that he’d felt sick inside but hadn’t known how to push her off. Lorraine was a woman, and you were supposed to be polite to women—and she was so _fragile_ , and he’d been so afraid of hurting her if he pushed her away—but those were excuses. The truth was, he’d panicked, and he’d frozen.

Lorraine wasn’t the only woman who’d thrown herself at him after the serum, but the showgirls had been sympathetic toward him, and usually contrived to rescue him when he got cornered. Steve doesn’t know whether it’s normal, to be so skittish about these things, but he can’t help it.

He feels so _violated_ , even though nothing happened, even though he’s perfectly safe, and perfectly capable of defending himself if he tried. But it’s one more reminder that this new body isn’t really his, that in becoming Captain America he also became public property. It’s one more reminder that even with the shackles off, he’s just as much a prisoner as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Tony makes some suggestive comments and touches Steve's leg inappropriately as a joke, and Steve takes him seriously and has a panic attack. 
> 
> Guys, it really isn't my intention to make Tony the big baddie here, but he's just such a good antagonist I can't help playing with it!  
> I'm loving all your comments. Thanks so much for your enthusiasm for this fic!!


	7. Understandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suicidal ideation

_“I mean, what are we, a team? No, no, no. We're a chemical mixture that makes chaos. We're ... we're a time-bomb.”_

–Bruce Banner, _The Avengers_

 

Bruce must keep his word, because Tony doesn’t flirt with him again, although the jokes he makes about Steve’s “old-fashioned sensibilities” increase in both number and crudeness. It’s annoying, but it’s better than Steve expected, and easy enough to ignore. The fact that Bruce even bothered, despite Steve’s apparent misstep, feels like a small gift, and Steve is pathetically grateful for it.

 

The first time he ends up in Bruce’s lab, it’s mostly an accident. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s wandering up and down the hallways of the compound, trying to walk off the feelings of restlessness and claustrophobia that had kept him from sleep. On the second floor, he sees an open door, with light and soft music spilling from it.

He doesn’t mean to pry, but he can’t help peering inside, wondering who is up at this hour—and makes direct eye contact with Bruce as the other man straightens up from looking at a pot of something on a small burner. Steve ducks his head, an apology forming on his lips, but Bruce gets there first.

“Hey, Cap, can you come here a sec?”

“Oh! Um… sure.” He goes to him, wary in case this is some kind of trap.

Bruce looks relaxed, humming slightly under his breath to what turns out to be Tchaikovsky. “I was just thinking I needed an extra hand, and then you showed up! Right. I’m going to pour this phial in, and when I give the word, I need you to drop in this powder, okay?”

Steve eyes the jar of white powder distrustfully. “The whole jar?”

“What? No! Oh, Lord, no, that would probably blow us all up. Here, let me measure that.” As Bruce bustles around, getting everything ready, Steve can’t help but think that _this_ is his element. Comparing lab-Bruce to mission-Bruce is like comparing night to day, even without the Hulk. He hadn’t realized just how tense and anxious Bruce usually is until he saw him like this, chattering about reactions and chemical bonding and temperature shifts.

“Okay,” he says after a minute. “It’s at a boil, now, so we’re all set. Now, listen. I’m going to pour in the phial, like I said, and turn off the heat. When I say, ‘Now’, you’ll pour in the powder, and then we’ll both back up really quickly, got it? Actually, hang on, you need safety glasses. Here.”

Bemused, Steve dons the glasses, holding his little spoonful of powder at the ready. He watches as Bruce adds the contents of the phial to the clear liquid already bubbling away in the saucepan.

“JARVIS, sixty seconds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The timing is crucial,” Bruce explains, stirring the mixture with a glass rod. “So far, I keep having a lag because I have to put one thing down and pick up another. But with you here, I can…”

“Fifteen seconds, sir.”

Bruce continues stirring, his free hand hovering over the dial for the burner.

“Five seconds.”

He withdraws the stirring stick.

“Three, two—”

“Go!” Bruce shouts, turning off the heat.

Steve pours in the powder, catching a glimpse of the mixture frothing madly before Bruce pulls him away.

There’s a _whoosh_ , and something like an explosion: A gout of pale blue flame shoots upward from the pot, followed by a cloud of steam. When Steve’s vision clears, the pot is completely empty, with not so much as a scorch mark on the bottom to testify what just happened.

“Yes!” Bruce is grinning like an excited toddler. “JARVIS, did you get a temperature reading on that?”

“18,34 degrees Kelvin, sir.” JARVIS pauses. “ _And_ 77.4 degrees Kelvin.”

“What? That’s impossible!” Steve says, too shocked to remember to keep his mouth shut. “How can it be—what are those in Fahrenheit?”

“Respectively 2841.53 degrees and -320.35 degrees, sir.”

“But… _how_?”

“The compounds I added cause two opposite chemical reactions,” Bruce says smugly. “One compound wants to heat insanely quickly, the other wants to freeze. When mixed together in the _exact_ right sequence, they’ll do it at the same time, cancel each other out, and evaporate.”

Steve stares at the empty saucepan in awe. “I didn’t know you could _do_ that.”

“Are you really interested?” asks Bruce. “I can explain how it works, but it’s a little… involved.”

For a moment, Steve hesitates, but his offer seems genuine. More than that, he can see a restrained eagerness in Bruce’s eyes, like he’s trying and failing not to get his hopes up. _Maybe he’s just as lonely as I am_.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like that,” he says honestly. He glances at the clock on the wall, and smiles wryly. “I don’t have anyplace to be.”

It’s the start of something, not quite a friendship, but an understanding. When Steve can’t sleep, or when he doesn’t have anything to do, he goes to Bruce’s lab. Sometimes he helps out with an experiment, and sometimes he sits on a stool and chats with Bruce; other times he just hangs out on the couch and reads a book, or explores the Internet on his phone. Bruce’s company is easy, relaxing in a way none of the others are, and he doesn’t seem to require anything of Steve beyond occasionally holding or pouring or stirring something. It’s… nice, and there are few things in his life that are nice, so Steve clings onto it. 

 

 

The Avengers Compound has an outdoor swimming pool. Steve eyes it longingly through the window of the east-facing sitting room; it’s a sweltering, sunny day, and he wants to go outside so much it hurts, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed.

“Not swimming, Cap?” asks Natasha from behind him.

Steve jumps and whips around, and then wishes he hadn’t; she’s dressed in an extremely miniscule bikini, and there’s a taunting smirk on her lips.

_Great. Just what I need, more ways to embarrass myself._

“I didn’t know if I had permission,” he says.

“You’re Captain America. Who’s gonna deny _you_ permission?”

That stings, and surprises him a little, too, though it shouldn’t. He doesn’t really know what to make of Natasha, but he hadn’t thought her cruel.

 _Maybe that’s just the way of things in this century_ , he thinks. He tries to go for casual, leaning back against the window frame. “Low blow, Natasha.”

She shrugs, uncaring. “Anyway, you should come swim, instead of just staring at the pool. Live a little, Rogers.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“Me neither, but here I am.” She looks him up and down, then visibly takes pity on him. “All the rooms are stocked, Rogers. Just go through your dresser, I’m sure you’ll find something. And if not…” She leans in close, chest brushing against his arm, her voice low and teasing. “Well, I doubt anyone will complain if you’re underdressed.”

Steve feels himself flush. “Thanks,” he says stiffly, looking over her shoulder. “I’ll just go and change, then.”

To his relief, she takes the hint. “I’ll see you down there, Rogers.”

She winks, then saunters off, and Steve beats a hasty retreat.

 

It's over an hour later by the time he goes down to the pool, wearing a t-shirt and gym shorts to cover as many of his scars as possible. He’d been hoping to avoid Natasha that way, but of course, that’s not the way his luck seems to go: when he arrives, she’s lying on one of the deck chairs near the water. Her hair is wet, but her lipstick is as bright as ever; Steve wonders if that’s something else the twenty-first century has come up with, cosmetics that stick to your face like a second skin. Then he wonders how you get it _off_.

“Hey Cap, c’mere,” she calls.

He sighs inwardly and approaches. “Hi, Natasha.”

“Don’t look so gloomy, jeez. You look like you’re going to an execution.”

He tries to arrange his face into something more cheerful. “Sorry.”

Natasha eyes him for a moment, then sits up abruptly, casting off her languorous manner as easily as a shawl. “Okay,” she says. “Is it the Russian thing? The spy thing? Tell me. I’m curious.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Most guys don’t react to me flirting with them by looking like their mother just died. So… is it you? Is it me? I’m pretty confident it’s not this.” She gestures at her body, and Steve goes red with mortification.

“It’s… me,” he says quickly. “Definitely me.”

“Don’t like women?”

“No! I mean, yes, I like women, but… um…” He’s panicking now, trying to find a way out of this without offending her. “Look, why are you doing this, anyway? You’re not even interested in me… that way.”

“And how do you know that?”

He swallows, wishing he’d kept his damned mouth shut. “You’re not the kind to let your guard down with someone you barely know,” he tells her. “And neither am I.”

Natasha stares at him for a long moment, then smiles, showing her teeth. “Touché.” She stands up, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. “I’m glad to know where we stand. Enjoy your swim, Rogers.”

“Thanks?” he says, nonplussed, but she’s already walking away.

The swim is nice, but it’s not worth making himself vulnerable like that. He doesn’t go back to the pool.

 

“See, we’re not a team, not really,” says Bruce, measuring clear liquid into an alembic. “We’re more like a... a chemical mixture. Get the elements right, and maybe you’ve got something great, but...”

“You don’t think we’ve got the right elements?” Steve asks.

The liquid turns bright blue. Bruce sighs. “We’re a time bomb. Volatile elements, thrown together—it’s only a matter of time before something sets one of us off.” He marks something on his tablet. “Probably me.”

Steve fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, wishing he had something better to do with his hands. He misses knitting. “How come you’re still here, then? Why don’t you just leave?”

“Where would I go?” Bruce asks bitterly. “Before Fury recruited me, I was living in a slum in Kolkata. I don’t—I can’t have a normal life, not with the Other Guy. And they’re never—as long as I’m like this, they’re never going to leave me alone, there’s always going to be someone who wants a monster on the leash.”

“You’re not a monster.”

He adjusts the flame on the Bunsen burner, then places a small dish on it. “It doesn’t matter if I am or not, Rogers. It’s just—look, it’s either going to be Fury, or someone else. And at least here, I can pretend I’m not in a cage.”

Steve flinches. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I get that.”

 

It takes him a month and a half—two weeks with the Avengers, one week off, repeat—before he gathers enough courage to go outside on his own.

“I haven’t done any training on natural terrain,” he tells Tony, standing ramrod stiff to keep himself from shaking. “I think I would be more prepared for missions if I started an outdoor training regimen.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Okay? Are you saying I need to update our facilities, because, let me tell you, they’re state-of-the art…” He goes on like that for a while.

Steve waits until he runs out of steam, then says, “I wasn’t criticizing. I just meant that, with your approval, I’d like to do some individual training, outside. It wouldn’t interfere with team training exercises.”

“Oh. Sure.” Tony waves a hand, already returning his attention back to his tablet. “Whatever floats your boat, Mister Freeze.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, and makes his escape before the other man can change his mind.

He’s still jangling with nerves when he makes it down to the ground floor, but there’s no one around, and no alarms sound when he pushes open the neglected side door and slips out into the open.

He takes his shoes off first, tucking his socks inside them and shoving them into the corner next to the door, where the spitting rain won’t touch them. A deep breath, a shake of his shoulders, and then he sets off at a sprint, bare feet squelching in the wet grass.

The wind slaps at his face in the best possible way, bringing the damp with it. The rain is less rain than a fine, clinging mist, which coats his face and hair within minutes. He feels like he can finally _breathe_ , fresh air flooding his lungs as he lengthens his stride, allowing himself to simply revel in his release from the claustrophobic interior of the compound.

Out here, there’s no one to judge him, no orders to follow; just the feel of the mud beneath his feet, and the rain-soaked air, like ambrosia on his tongue.

Eventually, he throws himself down in the lee of a group of lilac bushes, where he’s reasonably certain the building’s security cameras can’t see him, and sticks his nose in the damp grass, sniffing up the mingled scents of hay and earth and petrichor. He’s thoroughly soaked, now, but still warm, and for a little while he allows himself to just lie there, covered in mud and bits of grass, with water trickling down his face and the back of his neck.

It's as close to freedom as he’s likely to get.

 _It’s not so bad_ , he tells himself. The Avengers, for all their hostility, don’t seem interested in harming him physically, and as long as he continues to follow orders, Ross appears willing to let him remain here. Now that he’s running missions, Ross’s people have stopped conducting their so-called experiments, so even his time at the Army base is mostly just training with Soldat. The nature of their missions is such that he’ll probably take a bullet in the right place eventually, and that’ll be the end of it.

He’s probably only got a couple more years of this, at most; less if he just goes a little too slowly the next time they’re getting out of a blast zone. Even the serum won’t be able to save him, then. He pictures a pile of rubble with his feet sticking out from under it, like the Wicked Witch of the East, and snorts a laugh. Maybe Tony will inherit his ruby slippers.

It’s a relief, to think that he doesn’t have forever. He’s not immortal. And until he does manage to fall victim to an accident, he can come out here and breathe the fresh air, feel the earth under his feet.

At the very least, it’ll stop him going crazy.

He tilts his face upward, observing the lilac leaves toss in the breeze, the pearlescent stratus clouds scudding below the bellies of the darker grey thunderheads. The past few months have, at least, taught him patience. All he needs is an opportunity. Until then, he can endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making up all of the chemistry stuff in this chapter, because, hey, most of Marvel science is made up, right? :P The temperatures given are the standard temperature of blue flame and liquid nitrogen. 
> 
> I can't tell you enough how much I appreciate your comments! You guys are the best. <3


	8. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: descriptions/flashbacks of torture

_“If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;_

_It may be, in yon smoke concealed,_

_Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,_

_And, but for you, possess the field.”_

\--“Say not the struggle naught availeth”, Arthur Hugh Clough

 

They’re on the way back from an op in Turkey, where a terrorist group called Advanced Idea Mechanics had almost finished developing a deadly waterborne virus, presumably to use as a weapon. Steve privately thinks it’s typical of the twenty-first century that, having cured polio and cholera, they decided to invent something even worse.

It was an unusually difficult mission, involving capturing a bunch of AIM operatives, securing and destroying some incredibly volatile chemical compounds, and sorting out a hostage situation when it turned out that half the scientists on the project were there against their will. Now, everyone slumps in their seats in the Avengers quinjet, exhausted.

“Alright, good work, you guys,” says Tony. “I think we deserve a treat. Let’s get gelato. Let’s go—how about Nice? Nice is nice. JARVIS, detour to Nice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve looks around, but no one else seems concerned. “Tony,” he says. “We can’t go to Nice.”

“Uh… yeah, we can.”

“It’s too far from our scheduled route—”

Tony rolls his eyes. “News flash, old man, it’s the twenty-first century! It’ll take us, like, twenty minutes out of our way. No big deal.”

“It’s outside of the mission parameters,” Steve insists. “I’m not allowed—”

“Jesus, Cap, will you quit it already?” snaps Tony, throwing his hands in the air. “We all know you’ve got a hard-on for the rulebook, you don’t need to be such a douche about it.”

“I would greatly enjoy sampling the Midgardian fare to be had in Nice,” Thor puts in.

“C’mon, Rogers, lighten up,” says Natasha. “It won’t kill you.”

Steve stares at her, then around at the rest of them, all callously unconcerned. Are they that determined to sabotage him? Do they really not care what they’re condemning him to? _What did I do to make them hate me so much?_ he thinks.

“Come on,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t do this.”

Tony just shakes his head. “No can do, Cap. You’re outvoted.”

And Steve breaks.

He can’t go back, he can’t spend the rest of his life in a cell, and if it means sacrificing what little shreds of pride he has left, then so be it. Nothing is worth permanently going back to Ross.

“Please,” he says. His voice breaks. They’re all staring at him.

Slowly, deliberately, he slides off his seat, falling to his knees. “Please,” he repeats. “I’m begging you. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll follow orders, I’ll—I’ll give you anything you ask for, just please, please don’t do this to me, I can’t stand it, I can’t go back to them, I—I know you hate me, but please, if you have any mercy at all—” He takes a shuddering breath, hoarse around the lump in his throat. “Please.”

Tony is looking at him like he just grew a second head, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

“Stark,” says Natasha.

“Oh—yeah. JARVIS,” he says, “Return to our previously scheduled flight path.”

Steve releases a breath that sounds more like a sob. There are tears on his cheeks, but he doesn’t bother to brush them away; he’s already humiliated himself so much that a little more won’t matter. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Tony crouches in front of him. “Okay, Steve, I mean this as nicely as possible, but what the hell?”

It’s the first time any of them have called him by his first name. Steve feels like he’s choking. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to—to be insubordinate, or…”

“Steve,” says Clint, “none of us have any idea what you’re talking about. What’s going on?”

Steve raises his head to look at him. “Ross didn’t tell you about the tracker?”

“Who’s Ross?” asks Clint, at the same time that Bruce says sharply, “Not Thaddeus Ross?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Steve, bewildered. “General Ross? Head of the Army?”

“What does he have to do with anything?” Tony says.

He looks around at them, thrown. Do they really not know? Is this some sick joke, to break him further? “He’s the head of the Army,” he repeats slowly. “I’m the Army’s—property.”

“The hell you are,” says Tony.

“No, I am, I—the serum belonged to them, and I’m a product of the serum, so Ross says…”

“So you’re—what, their slave?”

Steve’s mouth twists. “Their Asset. One of them.”

Tony folds his arms. “No way, that’s not—that’s not how this works, that’s not how anything works. You’re joking.”

“He’s not,” Bruce says quietly.

Everyone looks at him.

He hunches his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “Ross always wanted a kept super-soldier,” he says. “That’s how I ended up with—with the Other Guy.”

There’s a brief silence, then everyone starts talking at once.

“You never told us—”

“Wait, so this Ross guy is, what, trying to _enslave_ _Captain America_?”

“Sounds like he succeeded—”

 “So all this time—”

“Bruce, you should have said—”

“We should destroy this vile worm, and cast his remains upon the—”

“Look, I would have told you, but I thought—”

“—ocean for the sharks to feed upon—”

“But look, that’s impossible, he can’t just—”

“That’s not _legal_ —”

“Wait,” says Steve.

They fall silent, turning to him, and he tries not to flinch under the weight of their combined gaze.

“You…” He licks his lips, heart beating far too fast. “You really didn’t know about this?”

“Well, of course not,” Tony says in an insulted tone. “What kind of people do you take us for?”

Steve doesn’t think he can answer that without offending him further, so he ignores it. “I just… thought you knew. I thought—Ross and Fury had an understanding.”

“Fury,” growls Tony. “He would.”

Natasha gives him a quelling look. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Rogers— _Steve_ —I think it’s best if you tell us the whole story.”

He looks around at them all, searching for any sign of deceit, but all he sees is concern and varying degrees of anger. Worry and anger—on _his_ behalf. And while he knows Tony and Natasha to be experts at concealing their true feelings—though in different ways—he also knows that Thor is an open book, and Clint and Bruce are nearly as easy to read. Their protectiveness is _real_ , and he feels surprised gratitude welling up in his chest, forcing tears into his eyes again.

“Alright,” he says hoarsely, and allows Natasha to steer him into one of the seats. “Where… where should I begin?”

“At the beginning,” says Thor. “That is where every story must start, is it not?”

“Start from when you woke up,” says Natasha.

So he does.

It takes him awhile, as the others insist on interjecting and arguing, forcing him to skip ahead and backtrack multiple times. By the time he’s finished, they’re halfway back to the Triskelion, and his stomach is knotted with anxiety.

Tony paces restlessly, face red with fury. “That’s—that’s not—they can’t _do_ that, that’s sick, it’s immoral—”

“Well, they did,” says Natasha. “They wouldn’t be the first.” There’s a particular, bitter cant to her mouth that makes Steve think his story hit a little too close to home. He doesn’t know much about her history, but he thinks she knows what it’s like to be used.

“We need to fix this,” says Clint. “Fast.”

Bruce just breathes, face tense and a little too greenish for anyone’s comfort.

“We _will_ fix this,” Thor says. “We won’t let you go back to them, Captain.”

Steve shakes his head. “I have to. The tracker—the sedative—”

“Oh, _that_ we can take care of right away,” Tony assures him. “Just let me get you in my lab, we’ll get those suckers out, no problem. You’ll never have to go back to Ross again.”

The idea of staying with the Avengers—of never seeing the inside of that cell again—is overwhelming, and for a moment, it’s all he can think about. But then other considerations surface, and he shakes his head.

“No, I—I can’t.”

“Why not? Surely you don’t _want_ to go back?”

“No, I—”

“Is this some kind of Catholic thing? Martyrdom doesn’t look good on anyone, Capsicle.”

Despite the direness of the situation, he can’t help but laugh. “It’s not that. I’m more than willing to get out of there, believe me. But… it’s not just me.”

Natasha folds her arms, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Oh?”

“There’s… another man there. A prisoner, like me, but he’s been there a lot longer than I have. I can’t—I can’t leave him there.”

“Awww, that’s adorable,” says Tony. “What’s his name? What does he look like? Is he _cute_?”

“I don’t know what his real name is,” Steve says, ignoring the other questions. “Ross just calls him the Asset, but he told me I could call him Soldat.”

“Soldat?” Clint asks sharply. “But that’s—”

“Russian for ‘soldier’, I know,” he says with a sigh. “But I asked him what his name was, and he said he didn’t have one. It’s the closest thing to a name he has.”

Clint and Natasha are exchanging meaningful looks.

“Steve,” says Clint. “Can you describe this guy?”

“He’s about my height,” Steve answers slowly, not sure what’s going on. “Brown hair, blue eyes. He wears a mask, so I’ve never seen much of his face… and his left arm is a prosthesis, made of metal.”

Natasha makes a little hissing noise, and Clint goes very still, face frozen in a grim mask.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“ _Zimniy Soldat_?” Clint asks.

She nods. “ _Da_.”

“‘Winter Soldier’?” says Steve, bewildered. “Is that a—a title, or…?”

The other two turn to stare at him simultaneously. It’s a little creepy.

“You speak Russian?”

He shrugs, uncomfortable. “Only a little. I learned some for meetings with the Soviet—look, what’s going on? What’s a Winter Soldier?”

 They exchange glances again.

“He’s a ghost story,” Clint says finally. “The ultimate assassin. No one knows who he is, or if he even exists. If the stories are true, he’s been around for the past fifty years, maybe more. He’s credited with over two dozen kills.”

“A Russian ghost, I assume,” says Bruce quietly.

“Russian, yes. A ghost? Not so much.” Natasha hesitates, then lifts her shirt, revealing a scar on her abdomen, just below her ribs. Steve has seen enough bullet scars to recognize it for what it is. “Four years ago,” she says quietly, “I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Someone blew out the tires of our car, so I covered the engineer with my body. He shot her right through me. The engineer didn’t make it. I almost didn’t, either.” She meets Steve’s eyes. “He had a metal arm.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “That makes sense.”

They’re still looking at him, like they’re waiting for the penny to drop. He’s not sure what he’s missing, though; he knew Soldat was enhanced, which explains the long lifespan—hell, maybe he’s not much younger than Steve—and it’s obvious from his skillset and the way the other soldiers treat him that he’s an experienced fighter, trained to kill. He’d guessed Soldat was either an assassin or part of some kind of special force, like Steve himself—not that the two are mutually exclusive. And when Soldat talks with any kind of accent at all, it’s usually Russian.

It all clicks together in his mind, fitting together into a larger picture. _Fifty years_ , he thinks. _Fifty years in captivity, fifty years of fighting for people who never gave a flying fuck about him, as long as he completed his mission._

_Poor devil_ , Falsworth used to say, usually about the young, hapless boys mowed down on the front, and he feels the phrase is particularly apt now. _Poor devil. Poor fucking guy._

“He’s credited with over two dozen kills,” Clint repeats.

“Yeah, he’s really good. At fighting, I mean.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, patiently, like he’s being slow. “He’s the world’s most skilled assassin. A killer. I don’t… I really don’t think he’s the kind of guy you can save.”

And now the penny does drop, the pitying looks on their faces. They think he’s been hoodwinked, that he’s somehow under the illusion that Soldat is some kind of hero, or even innocent.

He takes a breath, gathers himself to bare a little more of his wounded soul, because this is important. They need to understand. “A few weeks in,” he says, “I—disobeyed. Doesn’t matter how, I just. Didn’t do what they wanted. So. They put me in a tub of ice.”

Bruce sucks in a breath, eyes wide. Natasha’s face has gone completely blank, eyes narrowed nearly to slits.

“I don’t… I don’t think I can explain, how much I hate it. The cold.” And he’s trusting them now, throwing himself on their mercy, because the back of his head is screaming, _Don’t tell them, don’t show them any weakness, they can use it against you._ “It was. I was. Terrified. But the worst part, the worst part was when. It starts melting. And it’s getting in my mouth, my nose, and I can’t. I can’t do anything. Because before, when it was on my face, I could still breathe, but, once it started—melting—you get the idea.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Tony says, hushed.

Steve hurries on, because he has to, because just the memory of it is enough to make his lungs seize in remembered panic, and if he stops talking he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start again. “And Soldat—they left him there, to—I don’t know why, but he was. Just sitting there, watching me. Drown.”

“Fuck,” breathes Clint. “Fucking—just— _fuck._ ”

“And he starts whispering to me, right? Quiet enough, the mics or whatever they’ve got in that room won’t pick it up. But he knew, he knew I could hear him.”

He can remember it so vividly, the suffocating coldness of the icy water, the violent trembling of his limbs, the way the ice had shifted and slid across his face, and Soldat’s voice, a low, hoarse murmur.

_“Don’t panic, Captain. I have orders to clear your airways before you drown. You will not die. Think of something else. Anything.”_

“I—I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, how I was supposed to think about anything else, I mean, I was _drowning_ _slowly_ , what the fuck was I supposed to do—and I guess he realized that because he, he starts fucking _coaching_ me.”

_“Focus on my voice. Your body is just a shell. Your body is nothing. Imagine you are a ghost. You are floating in the darkness. There is nothing around you. There is no pain. There is nothing. You are floating. Your body is far away. You do not need it. It is not part of you. Focus on the darkness. It is calm. You are floating. You are far away.”_

_And Steve followed, as best he could, eyes shut tight, choking as water trickled down his throat, retreating deeper and deeper into his own mind, blocking out everything but the sound of that voice…_

“I don’t even know how long that went on. Hours, probably. And it was—I mean, it was still—awful. But. It helped. I don’t know if I could have gotten through it, otherwise.” He flicks his gaze upward, taking in their horrified expressions. “He didn’t have to help. If they’d found out, he would have been punished. He _did_ get punished, once or twice, for going easy on me. But—he tried to make it better, the only way he could.”

“Oh my God,” says Tony. “That’s like the most fucked-up guided meditation _ever_.”

Steve stares at his hands, clenched into fists on his knees. “The guys I worked with, during the war,” he says. “They’d all been POWs. They—they talked, a little bit, about what it takes to survive. We had to go through training in resisting interrogation, too. One of the things you do—to survive torture—you’re supposed to focus on something good, something that’ll take you out of your body, get your mind off it.

“I’ve seen him get tortured. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t react. He goes someplace in his head, where they can’t hurt him. And you know what that place is? It’s _darkness, where nothing hurts_. He pretends he’s a goddamn _ghost_.” He raises his head, speaking directly to Natasha now. “Does that sound to you like someone who’s there because he wants to be?”

She doesn’t answer, but her mouth tightens a little, and she looks away.

“He’s spent the last fifty years in God knows what kind of hell, and the only reason I haven’t turned into something just like him is because he had a head-start.” Steve folds his arms, staring at them belligerently. “So maybe he’s not the kind of guy who should be saved, but I don’t care. I’m not leaving him there, not if I can help it.”

There’s a long silence after that, broken only by the jet’s AI saying, “Sir, we have twenty minutes until landing.”

“Okay,” says Tony. “Okay, J, thanks. Holy _shit._ ” He runs a hand over his face, looking more rattled than Steve’s ever seen him.

Clint, to Steve’s mild surprise, is the one to take charge. “Alright, everyone, we’ll figure this out. Bruce, get ahold of yourself, take a few minutes if you have to—”

“’M fine,” Bruce mutters, but his skin has a faint green tinge, and Steve can see his hands shaking as he goes to sit down.

“We’re going back to the compound tonight, right? So we’ll figure out a plan when we get there. No one is to say _anything_ until we’ve talked this over, okay? Not even to Fury— _especially_ not to Fury.”

“Of course not,” says Thor.

“Stark, are you good to debrief Fury? Because, no offense, Cap, but you look done in.”

“Sure.” Tony doesn’t look so good himself, but he’s probably the best bullshitter on the team. He’ll get by.

“I’ll come with you, make up some shit about everyone being exhausted. The rest of you can go straight to the car. We’ll talk about this more tomorrow, okay?”

Steve nods, exhausted, as the others murmur their assent. He’s still reeling from the events of the last hour—still can’t quite believe that his teammates don’t hate him, that they might help him get _free._ Lost in his thoughts, he only realizes they’ve landed when Natasha touches him on the shoulder.

“Rogers? Time to go.”

“Oh—right. Yeah. Thanks.”

He stands, looking around at the others, and says, a little louder, “Thank you. All of you. I can’t… I can’t thank you enough.”

Thor shakes his head, more serious than Steve has ever seen him. “No thanks are necessary, Captain. We have hurt you, though unintentionally. It’s our duty to make it right.”

Steve cracks a smile. “It’s really not. But… thanks, all the same.”

 

He waits until the others have gone to their rooms for the night, then goes in search of Bruce. He’s not in his room, so Steve treads the familiar path to the lab, where he’s unsurprised to find lights on and soft music playing.

Bruce is perched on the rolling ladder that allows him to reach the top of the whiteboard, but he’s not writing anything; he’s just sitting there, staring into the middle distance with his chin in his hands. He looks around when Steve enters.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hi,” Steve replies tentatively. “Is this a good time?”

“What? Oh, yeah, it’s fine. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.” Bruce descends the ladder with the same caution he does everything else, as though even in this form he could easily destroy something fragile. When he reaches the bottom, he seems to hunch in on himself, clearly uncomfortable with Steve’s presence.

Steve tries not to let it faze him; Bruce has every reason to be uncomfortable with him, now that the truth is out. He just hopes that he’ll get over it soon; not counting Soldat (and Steve realizes that he probably _shouldn’t_ count Soldat), Bruce is the closest thing he has to a friend.

“I came across a term I didn’t really understand, and I was wondering if you could help me with it,” he says, holding up the little notebook he uses to take notes and jot down references. “I tried Googling it, but the results didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Sure,” says Bruce, clearly confused. “I mean, I’m not super up on pop references, either, but…” He trails off as he gets a look at what Steve has written.

_Are you being kept here against your will?_

Bruce stares at it for a long moment, his expression morphing from surprise to incredulity to something like pity. “Steve…” he starts, then breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “I appreciate you checking in with me,” he says softly, “but you don’t need to worry. I’m not a prisoner here.”

“But are you free to leave? If you wanted?” Steve presses.

“Technically, yes.” Before Steve can interrupt, he hurries on. “Listen, I’m in a—a unique position, okay? I told you, my life before the Avengers… it was pretty miserable. And now—I’m not gonna lie and say it’s all perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot better than before. And yeah, I could probably retire, move to some house out in the middle of nowhere and hope no one ever came looking for me, but… I’m not going to.”

“Okay,” says Steve, “I’m sorry, I’m not—I just wanted to make sure.”

“No need to apologize. I actually—it’s really, um, nice, that you thought of asking me. I—thanks.”

Steve can feel himself going hot about the ears, embarrassed both at his own paranoia and by Bruce’s thanks. He shoves his hands in his pockets, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “I, uh, I did have another question, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” says Bruce. “Why don’t we—do you want to sit down?”

“Sure,” Steve echoes, and takes a seat on one of the black leather couches that seem to be ubiquitous in the twenty-first century, or maybe just anyplace Tony’s had a hand in designing.

Bruce sinks down next to him, fidgeting with what looks like a metal spring. “It’s a Slinky,” he says when he catches Steve staring. “Helps with, uh, stress. And focus. And stuff. You want one?”

“You have more?”

Bruce indicates the basket under his desk, which is full of all kinds of weird little toys—balls and puzzle cubes , yo-yos, and, yes, more Slinkies. Steve has seen it before, but never looked closely. He grabs a plastic Slinky with rainbow colors, and returns to the couch.

“So, you wanted to ask me something?”

“Uh, yeah.” He stretches the Slinky and lets it bounce back on itself, finding that it does actually help to have something to do with his hands. “I just… I know you don’t really like using the Other Guy for, y’know, fights and stuff. So I guess I was wondering why… why you do it?”

Bruce purses his lips contemplatively. “Well, I guess… the first few years I had the Other Guy, I did a lot of damage. This is… this is my chance to make up for it, you know? Do something positive, make a difference, save the world…” He gives a cynical little smile. “Maybe it’s selfish, but I want to be remembered as more than a monster, or a failed experiment.”

“I don’t think it’s selfish,” Steve says. He hesitates. “Do you think it’s selfish to—to _not_ want to fight anymore? To have that ability, and not to use it?”

“Are we talking about you, now?”

Steve flushes. “Maybe.”

“I think you’ve served your time,” says Bruce. “If you want to lay down the shield, I don’t think any of us’ll be trying to stop you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Steve being tortured via ice came from another fic, "Thawing", by TheLocket.   
> The Slinky was invented in 1943, and became popular starting in 1945. Since Steve was already in the Army by that time, he probably wouldn't be up-to-date on the latest toy fad. :D  
> Polio is transmitted through person-to-person contact, or contact with bodily excretions such as feces; contaminated water used to be a major vector for the disease. Cholera is a water-borne illness.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, guys. I hope this chapter was worth all the angst!


	9. The Winter Soldier Project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of torture.
> 
> A note on language in this chapter: Steve speaks a little bit of Russian, so the Russian words he knows are presented in italicized English. The words in Cyrillic are those he doesn't know, but I've provided translations (via Google Translate) in the footnotes.

_“The caged bird sings_

_with a fearful trill_

_of things unknown_

_but longed for still_

_and his tune is heard_

_on the distant hill_

_for the caged bird_

_sings of freedom.”_

_\--“Caged Bird”, Maya Angelou_

 

When Steve enters the common room the next morning, he finds the others already assembled, sprawled over the furniture like a clowder of cats sharing a sunbeam. There’s a pile of Danishes on the table, and a whiteboard on an easel in the space between an armchair and one of the couches.

Natasha waves a mug at him from her puddle of blankets on the right-hand couch. “Hey, Rogers, get some coffee and join us.”

“You want me to get you some, too?” he asks, blinking. It’s weird to see all of them up before seven. Tony’s hours are completely unpredictable, but both Clint and Bruce tend to be late risers—on the days when they don’t have training, it’s rare to see Clint up before eleven. He’s also pretty sure that he’s never seen Natasha in pajamas before, but now she’s sitting there in a stretched-out t-shirt, flannel sleep-pants, and fuzzy socks with cat-prints on them. It’s a lot to take in.

“No, but get another cup for Clint, would you? He needs to _wake up_.” She punctuates this by poking Clint in the side with her toe; he snorts and jerks his head up, staring muzzily at the room.

“’M awake, m’ awake.”

“I’ll get right on that,” says Steve, and beats a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

Retrieving the coffee gives him the moment he needs to gather his thoughts, and try to calm his racing pulse. It’s clear they were waiting for him, but had chosen not to wake him—probably so they could talk amongst themselves, first. Whatever’s going on, it has to do with him. With what he told them last night.

 _Calm down_ , he scolds himself as he fishes a pair of clean mugs from the dishwashing-machine. _Obviously we have to talk this thing out. Last night I was in a panic, and everyone else was too shocked to think properly. You knew we’d need to meet about it._

_There’s no need to be nervous. They’re on your side._

Still, it’s hard not to feel like he’s been ambushed, especially when he returns to find all eyes immediately on him—with the exception of Clint, who seems to have dozed off again.

He sets Clint’s cup on the coffee table and lowers himself into the empty armchair. The mug gives him something to do with his hands, at least, as he says in what he hopes is an even tone, “I take it this is about me?”

“Oh my God, you narcissist,” says Tony immediately. “Not _everything’s_ about you, Cap, you’re like that Carly Simon song—” He breaks off abruptly—and without anyone having poked him, as far as Steve can tell—and his face does something complicated that ends with a weirdly neutral expression. “Yeah,” he finishes, in a much more serious tone, “we’re talking about you.”

Before Steve can do anything dumb, like panic, Bruce cuts in. “What he means is, we’re going to talk about how to deal with your, uh, situation. How to get you out.”

“Oh.” He fixes his gaze on the black liquid in his cup, trying not to betray too many feelings one way or another. “Thanks.”

“We’re gonna need more information about your boo,” says Clint, sounding far less sleepy than Steve would have expected. “Natasha and I are gonna see what we can turn up.”

“My what?”

“Your boy. The Winter Soldier.”

“He’s not my—anything,” Steve says to his coffee. “I mean, we have—I think we have a rapport, but… I don’t think friendship is a concept he’s all that familiar with.”

“Well, anyway, we’re going to find out what we can about him,” Natasha cuts in. “And we’re also going to find out what Fury knows about your situation.”

“I have a hard time believing he would condone this,” Thor says, looking troubled. “Surely he cannot know of their treatment of you.”

“I’ll talk to Coulson,” Clint puts in. “He’s got a major crush on Cap, he’ll babble about him for _hours_ if I get him going.”

Steve blinks. “Have I _met_ Coulson?”

“Maybe?” says Clint. “He’s the medium-height white guy who probably asked you for an autograph. Or mentioned his vintage Captain America trading cards.”

Steve frowns. “I think maybe… my first day, at the Triskelion?”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Natasha continues, “You’re supposed to go back tomorrow, so we’ll need a way for you to contact us if something goes wrong. Some kind of communicator, or alert.”

“They scan me every time I go back,” says Steve doubtfully. They also strip search him, but he doesn’t plan to mention that unless it becomes relevant.

“So something that’ll bypass their detectors,” Tony says breezily, like it’s just that simple. “Your hair’s long enough to cover something small if we put it on your neck.”

“It, um.” Steve closes his eyes, already dreading their reaction. “It would need to be able to withstand electric shocks, too.”

He opens them in time to see Tony fold his arms, his entire body tense in a way that Steve instinctively scans as dangerous.

“And why, pray, would it need to do that?”

“They, um.” He takes a deep breath, flushing in mortification. “When I’m at the base, I have to wear a shock collar. For, uh, control. Soldat, too.”

“Holy fuck,” Clint mutters. “Just when you think they can’t get any more evil.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just presses his lips together hard enough to turn them white. Finally, he says gruffly, “Right, well, I’ll take that into account.”

There’s another long, awkward pause, broken by Natasha. “Bruce, is there anything more you can tell us about Ross?” she asks. “We should get all the information we can.”

 “I’ll write down everything I can think of, but it’s not much.” Bruce shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “And, um… I—I know his daughter. She might—if we needed, she’d probably help.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, but makes a note on the whiteboard rather than comment. “Great. So that brings us back to the Winter Soldier.”

“What about him?” Steve says apprehensively.

“We need you to get a read on him. Whether he’ll fight us if we try a rescue, or whether he’ll trust you enough to come with.”

He nods, privately thinking that they’ll be lucky if they avoid having to tranq Soldat and drag him out. “I’ll… keep an eye on him.”

Tony shifts restlessly. “What’s our timeline, here? The longer we wait, the more chance there is for something to go wrong.”

“It depends on what route we want to take,” says Natasha. “Legal, or…”

“Vigilante style?” Bruce suggests wryly.

She nods. “Exactly.”

“Why should we wait?” Thor demands. “Why do we not storm the lair of our enemies, and snatch the Winter Soldier from their hands?”

Tony grimaces. “As fun as that would be, I only just got off the government’s shit list for the whole Iron Man thing. I’d kind of like to not become an outlaw right away.”

“There would be repercussions,” Natasha says, nodding. “Taking on the whole Army might be a bit too much—even for us.”

“So what’s the legal route?”

“We’d need to get a search warrant,” says Clint. “And for that, we’d need proof of—oh, what’s it called—”

“Probable cause,” says Tony. “What? I’ve been on the wrong end of a warrant before.”

“Yeah, that. Anyhow, that could be, like, Steve’s testimony, or if we got evidence, like video or pictures or audio…”

“We’ll add that to the list of information we need,” says Natasha, writing _EVIDENCE_ on the whiteboard underneath the heading _C+N._ “So that means we’ll need lawyers.”

“I can handle that,” Tony says, and _LAWYERS_ goes into the _TONY_ category. “And surely Fury can get hold of a warrant?”

“If we decide we can trust him on this, then yes,” Natasha answers. “Otherwise, we’ll need to find a judge who’s got enough power to take on the Army.”

“I’ll take a look at my bribe fund,” says Tony.

Natasha hits him.

“Ow! Quit it, I was joking! Are we done here?” When no one answers, he stands up. “We’re done. I’m gonna go get that device figured out. You guys should clean off that whiteboard before someone sees it.”

The others take the hint to go about their own business, and Steve retreats outside, where he runs in hectic loops around the perimeter before finally collapsing next to the lilac bushes. He can’t wrap his mind around the fact that they’re actually _helping_ him. That soon, he might truly be free, for the first time in this century.

Hope feels like a flutter in his belly, an alien weight upon his chest.

 

He goes back to Ross the next day, a flesh-colored panic button the size of a thumb tack hidden under his hair. He gives his report, changes from his uniform into the usual thin sweatpants and collar, and tries not to look too happy to see Soldat when he shows up to take Steve to his cell.

 

It’s the last day of his week with the Army when it happens. They’re sparring, alone in the barebones arena that smells overwhelmingly of sweat and the bleach they occasionally wipe down the mats with.

Soldat throws a punch, and Steve is just a little too slow getting out of the way. The blow lands on his shoulder, throwing him off balance, and he stumbles backward. Soldat presses his advantage, following up with a strike to the stomach that Steve just barely blocks.

He stumbles backward again, and Soldat hooks his ankle, pulling his legs out from under him. He flails wildly, searching for a handhold—his hand scrabbles at Soldat’s face—his fingers close around leather and plastic—

There’s a ripping noise and he falls, rolling as he hits the mat. When he gets to his feet again, Soldat is standing still, staring at him, one hand covering the lower half of his face—his face—

Steve glances down, at the thing he’s still clutching in his hand, and realizes he’s torn off Soldat’s mask.

He looks up again, filled with wild curiosity. In the eight months he’s been here, he has never seen Soldat’s face. He doesn’t know why—whether it’s to make him seem less human, or because of some disfigurement, or to protect his identity. The point is, the mask was never supposed to come off, and now the two of them are standing there, five feet apart, breathing heavily and staring at each other.

“I,” says Steve, gesturing uselessly with the mask. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

Soldat blinks, then, slowly, lowers his hand.

His face has angry red marks on it where the edges of the mask dug into it, and—

His face.

His face.

Steve can feel his legs trying to collapse underneath him; he needs desperately to grab something, to steady himself, but there’s nothing within reach to hold onto.

That face.

He would know that face anywhere, _should_ have known it long ago— hadn’t he thought that Soldat’s eyes looked like Bucky’s? Hadn’t he thought—hadn’t he noticed—

His eyes are big and blue-grey and apprehensive and _familiar_ , he’s got the same broad nose and cleft chin, the same mouth, twisted and unhappy the way he remembers sometimes from the war, when Bucky thought no one was looking.

_He’s credited with over two dozen kills over the last fifty years._

God, how had he never thought? How had he not guessed? He’d even speculated that Soldat was around the same age as himself.

_He’s a ghost story, the ultimate assassin._

_A Russian ghost, I assume._

The Russian search team had reported finding a body, too deep in a crevasse to be recovered.

And now, too late, too late, he remembers how quickly Bucky had rallied after he’d gotten him off that table, how he’d kept up with Steve even when the others struggled. He’d never questioned it—he had spent so long trying to catch up to Bucky that to draw level with him had seemed miracle enough. It had never occurred to him that Bucky _should_ have struggled—that Bucky was supposed to be only human.

_What’d they do to you, Buck?_

“Rogers?” Soldat asks. Without the mask to distort it, his voice sounds suddenly, achingly familiar. It jolts Steve abruptly to the present, to Soldat— _Bucky_ —standing in front of him, _alive_ , and the problem of what to do next.

“Sorry,” he repeats, and holds the mask up, like an offering. “Should I try to tie this back on?”

Bucky hesitates for a moment, then nods, frowning. His face is hardly more expressive now than it was with the mask on, but Steve thinks he detects something—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—in his eyes.

He steps close to him, fitting the mask gently to his face, and he’s not mistaken—he can see, clearly, the unhappiness wrinkling the corners of Bucky’s eyes.

“Bucky,” he breathes, and _God_ , but it rips at his heart to say it. All those times he’s lain in his cell, praying, wishing for Bucky to come rescue him, and Bucky was right there.

“What’s Bucky?” Soldat asks quietly, brow furrowed in confusion.

“You are.”

“I…?”

“I know you,” whispers Steve, looping the broken ends of the mask together. “We were friends, we grew up together. I didn’t recognize you until just now, with the mask—I’m sorry, Bucky.”

Bucky’s voice is equally quiet. “I don’t—that’s impossible.”

“I know—I know it seems impossible, and I don’t understand either, but... it _is_ you. You’re _Bucky_.”

“I don’t know that name,” he hisses, eyes wide and scared. “I don’t know _you_. I never saw you until—until—”

Steve fumbles the knot, his fingers catching in Soldat’s long hair. “You _do_ know me,” he insists. “You’ve gotta—try to remember, Buck, remember before—"

“There _is_ no before.” He shakes his head, making sure the mask will stay in place, and takes a step back. “Start again.”

Steve tries to swallow down his shock and anguish, and squares up. He ducks Bucky’s first punch, but the second gets him in the gut; he doubles over, gasping, and Bucky tackles him to the floor.

It catches him by surprise, and he lands on the mat hard, knocking the wind out of him. Bucky traps his arms with one hand and his knee, and lays his other hand against Steve’s throat, leaning in close enough that his hair brushes Steve’s face.

“I’ve always been their Asset,” he whispers. “They told me.”

“They lied,” Steve whispers back, struggling against his hold. “I _know_ you.”

Bucky shifts his knee, just enough to allow Steve to get his arm free. He grabs Bucky’s arm, and to his surprise, Bucky allows him to flip him over, reversing their positions. It hits him, then, that Bucky is doing this _on purpose_ , so they can talk without raising suspicion.

_There are cameras everywhere._

“I thought you died,” Steve pants, aiming a punch at Bucky’s head. “I thought you were dead, it never occurred to me—I should have looked for you—”

Bucky jerks his head away, so that Steve’s fist hits the mat instead. “I don’t understand.” He hooks a leg around Steve’s ankle, heaving him to the side. “If your friend—died—then how—”

Steve rolls away, purposely slow so Bucky has time to catch him and push him back down. “I don’t know—it must have been—Zola injected you with something—maybe a—super-serum—and you must have—survived the fall—”

“But I don’t _remember_ —”

“What _do_ you remember?”

Bucky goes quiet, and Steve takes the opportunity to grip him in a headlock. Bucky bends Steve’s pinky back nearly to the breaking point, and Steve lets go briefly with that hand, using his legs to keep him in place instead.

“I don’t,” Bucky whispers. “I don’t—this is all I know.”

“They told you to always wear the mask around me, didn’t they?” Steve guesses, then grunts as Bucky’s elbow connects with his solar plexus.

“How did you—”

“Bucky, don’t you see? They knew I’d recognize you. They were afraid I’d—ah!—tell you—who you were—”

His hands are back around Steve’s throat, but he doesn’t squeeze. He looks lost, confused and hopeful and scared. “How can you be sure?”

Steve wraps his hands around Bucky’s wrists, pretending to struggle. “I’ve always been sure about you, Bucky. I’m with you—‘til the end of the line.”

Bucky disengages abruptly, scrambling to his feet with far less than his usual grace. His eyes are flicking back and forth like those of a trapped animal, panicked and searching for a way out. “Start again,” he says hoarsely.

They spar until they’re exhausted and soaked in sweat. Steve is distracted the whole time, and Bucky scarcely better, both of them shaken by this revelation.

They don’t talk as they walk back to Steve’s cell, but there’s a line between Soldat’s brows that means he’s concentrating on something.

Just as Steve enters the cell, he shuffles closer and murmurs, “Did... did you used to be smaller?”

Steve turns to him, astonished, hope flooding him like a wave of sunlight—but the door is already sliding shut, an implacable barrier between him and the man he loves.

 

 

“So this Winter Soldier guy—”

“Bucky,” says Steve. Everyone looks at him. “Soldat, I found out—he’s Bucky, Bucky Barnes.” His voice catches. “My best friend.”

The others exchange skeptical glances.

“No offense, Cap,” says Clint, “But, uh, how is that even possible? I mean, didn’t he, uh—”

“Die?” Tony finishes, and raises his hands when Bruce and Clint glare at him. “I’m just telling it like it is.”

“I thought he died,” says Steve doggedly, before they can get too off track. “But I was wrong. _God_ , I was so wrong.”

“Steve—”

“His mask came off. While we were sparring. I saw his face.” He takes a breath, staring at the gleaming coffee table rather than face their pitying expressions. “He didn’t remember me, but I think—he does now. A little. Maybe. But it’s him. I know it’s him—I’d know him anywhere.”

 _Only I didn’t_ , he thinks, still furious with himself. _MONTHS I spent with him, and I never noticed—I never saw—_

“He’s right,” says Natasha unexpectedly.

Steve jerks his head up so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. “What? You _knew_?”

She scowls at him. “Don’t look at me like that, Rogers, I only just found out. I was going to tell you, but you beat me to it.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s alright. In your shoes, I wouldn’t trust me either.” Her tone is light, but there’s a certain tension in her shoulders that belies it.

 _“She’s a spy”,_ he remembers Tony saying, at some point during that first week. _“Fury can put her on this team, but that doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”_

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and forces himself to meet her eyes. “I don’t mean to assume the worst, it’s just—the worst has been a pretty safe bet for me, until recently.”

 _It’s not just you, it’s everyone,_ he wants to say. _I don’t trust a single person in this century—not even Bucky. Not even myself._

“It’s _fine_ , Rogers,” she says, sounding put-upon, but he thinks she relaxes a little. “Anyway, I’ve been over at the Pentagon, doing what I do best—”

“I helped,” Clint interjects.

“—so I thought I’d do a little digging on the Soldier.” She taps her phone, and a projection appears in the center of the table. It’s a picture of Bucky’s face—not Bucky as Steve knew him during the war and not Soldat now, but something in between—young and exhausted, hollowed out and scared.

Steve swallows hard, hands clenching into fists where they rest on his thighs.

“I found a file—top secret, Ross’s personal safe, yadda, yadda, yadda.” She flicks to a second image, this time of a paper document.

His Russian is shaky at best, but even he can recognize the Cyrillic words stamped across the top:

 _Winter Soldier_ проект[1]

_James Buchanan Barnes_

There’s a collective intake of breath, and he hears Tony say, “Fuck me,” very quietly.

He ignores them. This, he already knew.

“What did you find out?” he asks, and is proud of how steady his voice is.

She meets his eyes, deadly serious. “It’s pretty grim, Steve. You might not want to—”

“You think I don’t know that?” he demands. “You think I have _any_ illusions, after what I—” He cuts himself off, breathing deeply. “Just tell me, Natasha. I want—I need to know what happened. What they did to him.”

“Well,” she says lightly, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Her findings are exactly as horrific as Steve expected. The Russians had used every tool at their disposal to tear Bucky apart—and Bucky had fought, for far longer than anyone had expected, before breaking. The real revelation is the technology they used to wipe his memories, and the way the mind-wiping—using some kind of “chair”, evidently fitted with an electric pulse—had been combined with torture and rewards to turn him into their slave.

Steve’s fingernails dig deeply enough into his palms to draw blood, and Bruce has to pace around the room, breathing deeply, to get himself under control. Clint and Thor’s faces are uncharacteristically grim; Tony looks like he’s about to be sick.

“Vasily Karpov was legendary in the Red Room,” Natasha says, in a flat, carefully controlled voice. “He perfected the protocol for brainwashing operatives.”

“They used it on you?” Steve asks quietly.

She nods, lips pressed tightly together. “They could implant—false memories. Stuff that never happened. I thought—” She stops.

“You don’t have to tell us,” says Steve. “This isn’t—you have a right to your privacy.”

Natasha shakes her head. “No, it’s alright. I—I want to. Well, I don’t _want_ to, but—I trust you. All of you.” She looks around at them, meeting their eyes almost threateningly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“You need not worry, Natasha,” says Thor. “None of us would ever betray your secrets.”

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “I thought I was a ballerina—that I’d trained for years, that my parents sent me to ballet school. That I _had_ parents, who loved me. But it was—it wasn’t real, any of it. I don’t even know who my real parents were. I don’t know whether they gave me away willingly, or...”

Steve swallows, thinking that Natasha’s trauma makes his own problems light in comparison. “How old were you? When you—when they took you?”

“Five or six? I think.” She grimaces. “I was able to track down some information, but... it’s hard to know what’s real, and what isn’t. I can’t trust my own memories, and... most of the records were destroyed. But that’s not the point. The point is, the Soldier—Barnes—wouldn’t just have had his memories wiped—he was probably given new ones, to make him more susceptible.”

“He told me he’d always been the Army’s Asset,” says Steve. “I think, from other stuff he’s said, he—he thought he’d _asked_ for this, to be the perfect soldier, so he could—serve.”

“That’s sick,” says Tony.

“You’re telling me.” He can feel things about this later. Shoving down his anger, he focuses back on Natasha. “If he was part of a Soviet program, how’d he end up here?”

She sighs. “This isn’t in the file, but I believe I can fill in the gaps. You see, Karpov broke with the Soviet Union in the late eighties. He and Gorbachev—”

“Who?”

“Mikhail Gorbachev, the last leader of the Soviet Union.”

“Because the Soviet Union—dissolved,” says Steve cautiously. It still feels a little unreal; the U.S.S.R had been a major player in international politics for nearly his whole life, and a powerful ally against the Axis forces once they decided to break with Germany. It’s hard to believe the whole thing is just—gone.

“Right, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” She takes a small sip from her water bottle, twists the cap back on, and continues. “So, Karpov didn’t see eye-to-eye with Gorbachev about a lot of things, mainly the fact that Gorbachev wanted to de-escalate tensions with the West, end the Cold War, and, uh, scale back on the human-rights abuses that his predecessors had either actively encouraged, or at least turned a blind eye towards.”

“Human rights abuses like kidnapping kids, brainwashing them, and turning them into little super-assassins?” Tony guesses.

Her smile is crooked. “Well, that was certainly one of them.”

“So what happened?”

 “Well, Gorbachev wasn’t willing to continue funding Karpov’s experiments. The Red Room was—there was a very real possibility it would get shut down. At that point, it was basically a branch of the KGB, so Karpov didn’t have full control of it—it was his—his baby, I guess you could say, his pet project. He didn’t take well to being told there was no use for it, for him, anymore.”

She takes a deep breath. “Some time in 1990, Karpov—disappeared. No one ever found him. The rumor in the Red Room was that he had irreconcilable differences with the heads of state—that he was an old-guard Communist, and couldn’t stand to see the changes that were being made. I have a feeling it had a lot more to do with funding, and the chance that someone would call him to account for what he’d done, but... that’s neither here nor there. The point is, he disappeared without a trace, the Soviet Union collapsed, and the Red Room was absorbed into the GRU.”

There’s a little silence, as everyone digests this.

“Okay, I’m dying here,” Tony says eventually. “What happened next? Did Karpov take Barnes with him?”

“Well, a couple weeks ago, I would’ve said your guess was as good as mine,” she drawls. “But it just so happens that I have a few contacts in... convenient places.” She glances at Clint. “The Pentagon wasn’t my only field trip this week.”

Bruce’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “You found Karpov?”

She smirks. “As it turns out, he’s been living in Cleveland.”

“ _Ohio_?”

“Yep.”

They all contemplate this for a moment.

“Huh,” says Tony.

“I can’t believe you didn’t invite me,” Clint complains.

Natasha pats his hand. “I would have, but... some things, you just have to do alone. You know how it is.”

“Did you... know him?” Thor asks. His expression is solemn, and for the first time, Steve can really believe him to be thousands of years old; there is a weight to his words, and a look of ancient grief in his eyes, that feels far older than the present situation.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He didn’t seem to recognize me, but... I would have been six, when he left the Red Room. And there were a lot of us. They didn’t even bother giving us names until we were older, until we’d proved we could survive.”

Clint makes a hurt little sound in the back of his throat, and touches his foot to hers, a subtle gesture of mutual comfort and reassurance. She taps his foot in response, and continues.

“Anyway, I was able to get some information from him—although, most of it was from what I found in his house. He didn’t really want to talk.”

“I thought you spy-assassin people had _methods_ ,” says Tony.

She meets his gaze calmly. “You mean torture? It doesn’t work.”

Steve must make some kind of noise, or perhaps his expression gives him away, because Natasha turns toward him immediately, looking contrite.

“I mean it doesn’t work for extracting the truth,” she clarifies. “People will say anything to stop the pain—it’s not reliable. It works—quite well, for other things.”

The way she says it sounds like an apology. Steve just shakes his head; his feelings aren’t important just now. “So what did you find out?”

“I found out that Karpov did take the Winter Soldier with him when he left Russia. He then used the Soldier as a bargaining chip to get him into Cuba, sought asylum, and basically tried to start a new Red Room program there. The Cubans were happy enough to have a world-class assassin at their disposal, but refused to provide extra funding for Karpov’s program. Basically, they were willing to put Karpov up because of the Soldier, but they weren’t interested in forking over a lot of money for his experiments. I don’t know what exactly happened, but something must have soured there some time in the late nineties or early 2000s—because that was when he found out about an American general with an obsession with supersoldiers.”

“Fucking Ross,” Clint mutters.

Tony frowns. “Wait a second, though, aren’t Americans, like, the enemy? Why the hell would Karpov approach _us_?”

Natasha shrugs. “He wouldn’t say. My guess? He was desperate. Something happened in Cuba that made him want out. And he figured this would be his best chance at getting out of the game alive. Mind you, he was getting older, and I don’t think he really cared about the Communist cause, as long as he got to do his creepy little experiments. Again, I’m guessing here, but that’s what I think.”

“So he approached Ross,” says Steve, determined to get to the end of this. “What then?”

“Well, the rest is mostly reading between the lines,” Natasha says, “But Ross must have been thrilled to get his hands on a supersoldier of his own. Karpov must have messed with Barnes’s memories, to make him—suggestible—for the Army’s use, but it looks like he only gave them the most rudimentary version of the Chair. Which, considering everything else, we should probably be really fucking grateful for.

“Ross acquired Barnes, plus the cryo tank, the Chair, and probably some trigger phrases to ensure his cooperation, and Karpov got free entry to the U.S. and a crappy house in Cleveland. And they’ve been there ever since.”

“Happily Ever After,” Tony says sarcastically. “Jesus Christ.”

Steve chews on his lip, thinking it all over. “What I don’t get,” he says at last, “Is why they’re not using him now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, they’ve basically just been using him to train me, to provide an example. Like some kind of... glorified babysitter. I don’t think they’re sending him on missions at all, but they’re not—they’re not freezing him, either. And they sunk a lot of time, and probably money, into making me their Asset, too. I just—looking at it from Ross’s perspective, it seems like a—a waste.”

She nods. “That one, I can answer. The Soldier becomes more erratic the longer he’s awake. More—aware. They can keep him under control with trigger words and punishments, but at this point, they can’t really trust him in the field. And there’s no real point to an operative you can’t send into the field.”

“But he does everything they say,” Steve says, bewildered. “He broke my arm one time, just ‘cause they told him to.”

Bruce makes a gagging noise and quickly leaves the room. The others are staring at him.

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “I’m just saying.”

“That’s the problem,” Natasha says. “At this point—and this _was_ in the file, I’m not making this up—he has to be told what to do _all the time_. With all the wipes, his memory is—he forgets stuff, but he also... he’s lost a lot of his decision-making capabilities. He’s trained as an assassin, a sniper—what use is that, if he can’t be left to his own devices for five minutes?”

“I see,” says Steve. He doesn’t, really; it’s not like Soldat is _dumb_ , so it can’t be that he’s completely unable to think for himself. Maybe he’s just paralyzed by the idea of screwing up. That seems like a reasonable reaction to Ross’s method of control.

There’s another pregnant pause, and as usual, Tony is the first one to break it.

“Okay, so we know what happened to him, more or less. What are we gonna _do_ about it?”

“We’re going to save him,” Steve says firmly. “Or at least, I am.”

Natasha meets his eyes, and there’s a little too much sympathy in her gaze for his liking. “And if you can’t?”

“Then I’ll die trying.”

“Okay, okay, no need for unnecessary heroics,” says Tony, rolling his eyes. “Have you always been this dramatic?”

The corner of Steve’s mouth ticks upward, almost imperceptibly. “Oh, yeah, Peggy always says—” He breaks off, feeling as though an icicle has stabbed him in the heart—for a moment, he’d forgotten. The others are looking at him expectantly, though, so he clears his throat and carries on. “She used to make fun of me for it.”

“The Winter Soldier,” says Thor thoughtfully. “Does he trust you enough to let us rescue him, do you think?”

Steve hunches his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’d like to believe so, but… I don’t know. And if Ross thinks his loyalties are shifting—he could use that Chair thing to wipe his memories, couldn’t he?”

“He could,” Natasha confirms. “But I’m not sure that he will. If Barnes is of no use as an Asset, Ross may intend to use him as a means of controlling you.”

“But he tried to hide his identity.”

“Maybe he wanted to see how far he could get without using Barnes as a carrot.”

Steve, thinking of his burgeoning feelings for Soldat, has to admit she has a point. Using Bucky’s identity as a final ace in the hole makes a horrible sort of sense.

“So while Tash was messing around in Cleveland, I went and had a talk with Coulson,” Clint says. “He said that SHIELD’s agreement to the Army is that they’re basically paying the Army for Steve’s time, with the understanding that the Army then pays Steve. I snooped around in the finance office and confirmed it. So whatever else Fury does or doesn’t know, I think SHIELD is under the impression that Steve is earning a salary. It’s a pretty substantial one, too.”

“How much?” asks Tony.

“About a hundred dollars an hour, give or take overtime and downtime and whatnot.”

Steve nearly chokes. “A—I’m sorry, did you just say a _hundred_ _dollars_? An _hour_?”

“Don’t have a heart attack, old man, that’s not even close to what the rest of us make,” Tony says breezily.

“I’m twenty-seven,” says Steve, more or less on automatic; then the rest of that sentence catches up to him. “Wait, you all make _more_? Is that _normal_? Does—is everyone millionaires, now, or—?”

“Inflation,” says Natasha. “But no, a lot of people make less than that. Federal minimum wage is seven-twenty-five an hour—”

“The lowest-paid Stark employees make thirty bucks an hour,” Tony puts in.

“Great, Tony, you want a pat on the back?”

“I’m just saying.”

“So, if I was actually receiving that salary, I’d be… rich,” Steve says, dazed.

“Pretty much,” says Clint, shrugging. “Anyway, my point was, if SHIELD is paying that much money with the understanding that it’s going to _you_ , I don’t think they realize you’re virtually a prisoner of the Army.”

“Which would make it a lot easier to get a warrant,” Tony points out.

“Yeah, about that, we should come up with a way to approach Fury…”

 

The discussion drags on late into the night, until a plan has taken shape. There are still pieces missing, moving parts that can’t be finalized until they have more information, but it’s a start.

When everyone disperses, Steve follows Natasha into the hallway, catching her just before she reaches her rooms.

“Natasha?”

She turns, raising her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“I—can I ask you— what did you do with Karpov?”

Natasha scrutinizes him for a long moment, assessing, her face unreadable. At last, she says, “I killed him.”

He exhales, letting tension escape from his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“No lecture on the right to a fair trial? ‘Revenge doesn’t solve anything?’ ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right?’”

“That’d be a bit hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, if that’s all, don’t let me stop you.”

He realizes that she genuinely expects him to judge her for this, and meets her eyes, letting her see the truth there. “Natasha. Karpov was evil. I’m glad he’s dead. And if killing him offered you any kind of—catharsis—then it’s probably the least of what you deserve, after everything you’ve been through.” He ducks his head, awkward. “Anyway, if you hadn’t, I’d be trying to find some way to kill him myself. So.”

She smiles, then, crooked and cynical and genuine. “Well, Rogers. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“No offense,” he says, with a wry smile of his own, “but you don’t know jack shit about me.”

Her eyes crinkle in amusement, the kind of restrained laughter that Steve has seen once or twice from Soldat. “Well, then, Steve Rogers, I look forward to learning more.”

“Me too,” he tells her. “If you let me.”

“We’ll see,” she says, but her tone is friendly rather than quelling. “Now get to bed, Steve. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He throws a salute sloppy enough to get him kicked out of the Army, and gets another quicksilver smile in return.

 

Steve goes to bed with hope and anxiety warring in his mind; the idea that he and Bucky might soon be free is incredibly tantalizing, but it’s hard to believe it can really happen.

 _Hope for the best, prepare for the worst_ , he tells himself, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. _Maybe it’ll all turn out okay, and if not, well—I’ll just make sure to go down fighting._

It’s a relief, of sorts, just to have something to fight _for_. The thought of rescuing Bucky has broken through his apathy, and he feels some glimpse of himself coming back again. He has a purpose, now, and most of a plan, and he’s not afraid of dying in pursuit of it. For now, that’s enough.

 

[1] Project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always found it weird that in the MCU, Natasha makes all these references to the KGB and the Soviet Union when she was supposedly born in 1984. Same thing with the Winter Soldier using Soviet equipment. Did the Russos forget that the USSR dissolved in '91? It's a mystery! Anyway, I've tried to resolve the timing issues in this, but I've probably still fudged some stuff.  
> Why Cuba? It's still Communist, it was a Soviet ally, and Castro seems like the kinda guy who would find uses for the Soldier. Cuba was negatively affected by the collapse of the USSR, so I imagine they'd grasp at any straw to keep themselves from going under.


	10. Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Minor surgery, mentions of past torture. Details in endnotes.

_“If you pardon, we will mend._

_[….]_

_Give me your hands if we be friends,_

_And Robin shall restore amends.”_

\-- _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , William Shakespeare

 

The team, he notices, seems to be trying to make it up to him. They tease him less, or at least, they tease him in a friendlier manner, and their criticisms during practice are more helpful and less acerbic. In the downtime between planning sessions and training, they pay more attention to him, attempting to engage him in conversation or include him in activities.

Natasha and Clint rope him into a game of poker, using rubber bands for chips (unsurprisingly, Natasha wins by a landslide). Thor wants him to play round after round of chess, using ivory pieces that look about a thousand years old. Bruce keeps offering him tea, which Steve is pretty sure is his default method of comfort, as he’s not particularly good with words. Tony… well, Tony appears to be doing his best never to be in the same room as Steve if he can help it, which he supposes is its own form of kindness. _If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all_ , the saying goes, and Steve figures that’s what Tony’s trying to do.

All things considered, it’s probably for the best.

 

On the second day after Natasha’s briefing on the Winter Soldier, Clint shows up at Steve’s door looking extremely shifty and holding a potted plant with tall, variegated leaves. 

“Hi, Steve.”

“Hi,” says Steve. He looks at the plant. Clint looks at the ceiling. Steve waits. Clint stares at the floor.

“Um… can I help you?” Steve asks finally.

“No, no, it’s fine, everything’s fine, I just… I have this plant?”

“Yeah,” says Steve patiently. “I see that.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, um, so. I have this plant. It’s. For you. I mean, if you want. You don’t have to, if you don’t want, I just thought, you’re always wandering around outside, so maybe you’d want something green _inside_ , but if that’s not what you’re into—”

“For me?” Steve echoes, bewildered.

“Yeah, it’s, um. It’s a snake plant.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah—yeah, they’re really hard to kill, so I thought—I mean, not that you’d kill it, obviously, just that you don’t need to, um, worry about it too much, it shouldn’t be too hard to take care of if…” Clint trails off, eyes darting around like he’s conducting a drug deal in a back alley rather than giving Steve a present.

“Thank you,” says Steve, finally overcoming his surprise enough to remember his manners. “That’s really nice of you.”

Clint blinks. “Oh. Um. You’re welcome? You’re welcome. Anyway. Here!” He thrusts the plant into Steve’s arms, and flees.

Steve puts the plant on his windowsill and googles “How to care for a snake plant”. It’s only when his facial muscles start to feel oddly stiff that he realizes he’s smiling.

 

Thor waylays him in the hall later. “Steven!”

“Hi, Thor.”

“I have something for you. Come with me.” He turns, expecting Steve to follow, and Steve does.

He’s never been in Thor’s room before, but somehow he’s unsurprised by what he sees—a giant bed, lots of richly-colored drapes and rugs, and an unnecessarily large number of gold plates and goblets cluttering all available surfaces. There’s also a carboy of what appears to be some kind of alcohol fermenting in a corner, and Mjolnir is laid in a shoebox with a doll’s blanket tucked over it. He stares at it for a few seconds, then decides not to ask.

Thor, meanwhile, is rummaging around in a drawer; he gives a triumphant “Ha!” and turns, holding out a small wooden box. “Here you are, Steven! A small gift, but I hope you will find it to your taste.”

“Thanks, Thor, but you really don’t need to give me anything. I, uh—I can’t really return the favor, so…”

But Thor waves away his objections with an airy hand. “Have no fear! I do not expect any recompense. This is merely a token of my friendship, such as any warrior might give another.”

Steve struggles with his pride for a moment, but in the end he can’t resist the expectant, excited look on Thor’s face. Refusing him, he thinks, would be like kicking a puppy. “…Okay,” he says, and takes the box. “Thanks.”

“Do not thank me yet! You must see the contents first!”

He nods, but takes a moment to look at the box before opening it. It’s made of a dark, reddish wood, with stylized carvings of animals on the sides—a bear, a cat, a wolf, a deer....

“Open it!” Thor urges, and Steve lifts the lid.

Inside is a round, unfaceted stone, about the size of the compass Steve lost in the plane crash. Its surface shimmers like there’s fire or water in its depths, catching the light and refracting it into a hundred different colors. It’s set in a simple silver casing, and Steve is reminded of the broach his mother used to wear to church on Sundays, which had been made of Connemara marble, and was the nicest piece of jewelry she owned.

“It’s beautiful,” he says truthfully. He plucks it from its velvet casing, and turns it back and forth to catch the light. “I, uh, I don’t know anything about gems.”

“This is a fire opal,” Thor tells him. “An Asgardian fire opal, which is far finer than those here on Midgard—or at least, its properties are stronger.”

“Properties?”

“The fire opal is a healing stone,” says Thor. “It helps one to deal with loss, and grief, cleanses bad memories, and protects you from harm.”

Steve looks at the stone skeptically. “So you’re saying this is magic?”

“Yes and no,” Thor says easily. “On Midgard, science and magic are two different things. On Asgard, they are the same. Our greatest scientists are well-versed in the magic arts.”

“And this stone—how do you know it does all that?”

“Its effects have been well-tested. Our grief-counselors and mind-healers use these frequently. Your Midgardian fire opals have similar properties, but they are weaker, and not as reliable.”

“Grief,” says Steve slowly. “And bad memories.”

“Indeed.” Thor hesitates, then places a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You have been hurt, my friend, and it sounds to me as though your friend Bucky has been hurt similarly. This stone… it is a small gift, but I hope it will help a little with your healing.”

Steve bites back tears, moved as much by the other man’s thoughtfulness as by the practicality of the gift itself. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “This is—this is more than I can ever repay.”

“We are brothers in arms, Steven,” Thor says seriously. “Between us, there can be no words of giving and taking, of debt or repayment. We have shed blood together, and eaten and drunk at the same table; it is enough.”

“I don’t know what to say,” says Steve, a little dazed.

“Then say nothing. Carry the stone when you can, or look into its depths when you are in need of healing. Wash it in cold water every day, to dispel negative energies.” Thor gives his shoulder a small shake, and lets him go. “All will be well, Steven,” he says kindly. “All will be well.”

 

Natasha disappears for a few days, then shows up in the living room when Steve is there alone. She strides in and drops a stack of file folders in the coffee table in front of him with a loud _thwack_ , making him jump.

“Hey, Rogers.”

“Hi, Natasha.” He eyes the folders with trepidation. “Are those for me?”

“Yep.” She flings herself down next to him, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “It’s nothing bad, though, don’t worry. Or, well, it’s not objectively bad.”

He shifts on the couch, putting a little more space between them. Even knowing that no one here will do anything to him without his consent, he’s still wary of being touched. “So, what is it?”

“I tracked down some information about people you were close with before the ice—Margaret Carter, Chester Phillips, the Howling Commandoes, the Barneses… These are—summaries, basically. Stuff they did, who they married, kids, grandkids, pictures, that sort of thing. I thought you might want to know what happened to them.”

Steve touches the top folder, feeling overwhelmed. “Are any of them still—are all of them dead?”

“Not all of them, actually,” says Natasha. “Agent Carter is still alive, and so are James Morita and Gabriel Jones. James Barnes’s two younger sisters, Rebecca Proctor and Leah Calvino, are alive and have children and grandchildren.”

Steve nods, looking away from her while he composes himself. It’s—it’s good news, better than he could have expected, that three out of the six original Commandoes—counting Bucky—are alive, not to mention Peggy. But he can’t help focusing on the gaps, on the names which must belong to the dead now—Dum-Dum, Monty, and Dernier, along with Phillips and Bucky’s parents and all the other people he once knew, who were alive to him less than a year ago.

He knew this already, of course, had even expected more of his old friends to be gone. But there’s a terrible finality to hearing it in Natasha’s words, in seeing their lives shrunk down to a pile of manila folders on a coffee table.

“… Steve?” she asks, and he realizes she’d been talking to him.

“What? I’m sorry, I drifted away for a moment.”

“I said, should I not have sprung this on you? You don’t have to read them now.”

“No, I—I’m glad you did. It’s just—a lot.” He glances over at her. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” she says lightly. “Consider this… an apology.”

“An apology?”

She looks away from him, idly tracing a pattern on her thigh. “I know what it’s like to be used. I should have noticed sooner. But I—I let myself see what I expected to see—which, by the way, is unforgiveable in a spy—and so I missed all the signs. I didn’t notice, and you suffered for it. So. I’m sorry.”

He gathers his courage and lays his hand over hers, meeting her eyes when she turns to him, startled. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Natasha. What Ross did isn’t your fault—it had nothing to do with you.”

“No, but me not even trying to find out who you really were? That’s on me. I judged you without knowing anything about you, and I should know better.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I forgive you,” Steve says. “But as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to forgive.

Natasha stares at him for a long moment. “So did the serum actually make you perfect, or have you always been like this?”

He laughs, moving his hand away. “I don’t know, I’m pretty sure Bucky thought I was a punk before and after, so I doubt the serum changed my personality that much.”

“Hmm, maybe something’s getting lost in translation—did punk used to be synonymous with bravery, virtue, and American manhood?”

“Pretty sure it was synonymous with being a stupid kid who never learned to keep his mouth shut and stay out of trouble.”

She smirks in what he thinks is genuine amusement. “Now _that_ sounds like someone I wouldn’t mind getting to know better.”

He doesn’t know quite what to say to that, floored by such an open offer of friendship from Natasha, of all people. Luckily, she steps in before he can get too tongue-tied.

“So. You want to take a look at any of these, or save ‘em for a rainy day?”

Steve hesitates. “Would you—no, never mind, I’m being stupid.”

“If I minded stupid, I’d have given up on Clint long ago.”

“Ha.”

“Go on, Rogers, tell me.”

“I just—would you mind—” He stops, then says quickly, “Would you mind just telling them to me? You don’t have to, I just—”

“Okay.”

“You—you wouldn’t mind?”

“No, not at all.” She gathers up the folders, opening the first one. “When I first got out, I had to go through a lot of stuff like this, trying to piece together what had happened to me. It was… unpleasant.” She meets his eyes. “If I’d understood the concept of friendship at the time, I would have wanted a friend to be there for me.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Steve says quietly.

“It’s in the past now.”

“Still.”

Her expression softens. “Thanks.” She clears her throat, turning to the folders. “Shall we get started?”

 

Three days before Steve has to go back to Ross, Tony takes him down to one of his labs to get rid of the subdermal tracker and sedative-release.

Steve hasn’t been in this particular lab before, and is half-consciously expecting something similar to the Army’s setup, with an operating table and restraints and monitors beeping all the time. Instead, the room is cluttered, with parts of various machines piled on every surface and spilling out of the numerous cabinets, hologram-projectors and monitors displaying readouts and diagrams that make about as much sense to Steve as Egyptian hieroglyphs, and a coffee-maker on the counter next to the industrial-sized sink. In the middle of the room, shoved up next to a rolling cart with a copper vase full of some kind of metal rods, is what appears to be an antique chaise lounge with a sheet (patterned with tiny green Hulks) draped over it.

The cheerful clutter relaxes him a little, though he’s still nervous about what they’re about to do. He’s made the decision to trust Tony, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with it.

Tony appears to be oblivious to his nervousness. “Okay, so the first thing we’re gonna do is scan you, to make sure we know exactly where the implants are, and make sure they haven’t hidden any other nasties on you. Capiche?”

“ _Lo capisco_ ,” Steve answers thoughtlessly. “What should I... Tony?”

Tony is staring at him, mouth slightly open. “Wait, you speak Italian, too?”

“Not much,” he says with a shrug. “Just enough to get by.”

“ _How?_ ”

“That’s where I was deployed first. And we ran missions there. Why?”

“Okay, well, I just don’t expect you to start talking in random languages—”

“You started it!”

“It’s a—a what-do-you-call-it, a loanword—it’s not _actual_ Italian!”

“Tony,” says Steve wearily, “does this matter? At all?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then could you please tell me what you want me to do right now?”

“Oh. Right.” Tony visibly reins himself in from whatever tangent he’d been ready to embark on, and points at a metal disk on the floor. “So you’re gonna stand on that, and I’ll have JARVIS scan you. But you’ll need to take your clothes off first.”

Steve feels his gut clench at the prospect, but crouches to unlace his shoes anyway. “Everything, or...?”

“Well, keep your underwear on, I don’t really need to see that.”

He tries to hide the relief in his voice. “Okay.”

Turning his back to Tony, he pulls off his shirt, folds it, and lays it atop his shoes. He’s undoing his belt when he hears the other man gasp. Steve turns, thinking that Tony might have injured himself or something, only to see the other man staring at him with wide eyes.

“What?”

Tony swallows. “Your—your—what _happened_ to you?”

Steve looks down at himself, suddenly conscious of the many scars crisscrossing his torso, bisecting him like street-lines on a map of London. He folds his arms across his chest, tensing under Tony’s scrutiny. “You mean the scars?”

“Do I mean— _yes_ , I mean the scars! What—how—Dad said the serum gave you an accelerated healing factor!” He says it accusingly, like it’s Steve’s fault that his body doesn’t work exactly the way Howard thought it should.

Steve kind of wishes that Howard had just kept his mouth shut. He has a feeling it would make dealing with Tony a lot easier. “That’s true,” he says patiently. “I heal fast, so normally I don’t really scar—”

“But—”

“But if the injury is severe enough, or it’s re-opened while it’s healing, then—yeah. It leaves a mark.”

As if this isn’t awkward enough, Tony steps into his space, staring intently with his too-sharp eyes. “These aren’t from the war.”

Steve swallows. “No.”

Tony’s hand skims over the white ridge of scar tissue above Steve’s right hip, where they’d cut all the way through the muscle. Steve flinches at the touch, his breath coming too fast. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Please don’t touch me.”

To his surprise, Tony jerks back, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as if to keep them as far from temptation as possible. “Sorry—sorry, I shouldn’t have—that was shitty of me.”

It takes a few seconds for Steve to swallow down the lump in his throat. “It’s—okay,” he manages. “I just—it’s—I’m not used to it.”

It’s a terrible explanation, but Tony seems to accept it; he nods and takes another step backwards. “You’re okay with the scan, though, right?”

Steve takes a moment to wish himself on Mars or somewhere equally remote. “I’ve been through worse, Tony, I can manage.”

“That’s not a resounding yes, Otzi.”

He doesn’t bother answering, just strips off his pants and goes to stand on the scanner-disk-thing. At least it’s warm in the lab. “Is this good?”

“Just move your arms away from your body a little bit? Yeah, like that. Okay, JARVIS, begin scanning.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a beep, and one of Tony’s myriad screens comes to life, displaying a diagram of what Steve can see is his own body, rendered in a grid of green lines. To his relief, the computer image seems to draw all of Tony’s attention; he doesn’t so much as glance at Steve again until there’s another beep and JARVIS says, “Scan complete, sir.”

“Great, J,” he says distractedly, and waves a hand at Steve. “Okay, put some pants on, you’re done.”

Steve obeys with alacrity; then, having nothing else to do, he sits on the chaise lounge and waits. After a minute or two, he finds himself staring at his feet. The toes are crooked and overlap in places where they were broken, and there are red callouses across the top of them from rubbing against the insides of his shoes. He wonders, idly, whether it’s possible to re-set them, and if it is, whether Tony or Bruce might be willing to find a doctor to do it for him.

It’s a small thing, small and probably stupid, but it would be nice to have normal feet again.

“Okay,” says Tony, “Looks like it really is just the tracker and the sedative-release. So here’s the plan, Vanilla Ice. I’m gonna take out the sedative, and then I’m gonna take out the tracker and fit it with an override, so I can control what it tells Ross about your whereabouts. Then I’ll stick it back in and sew you up. Alright?”

“As long as you’re sure they won’t know the difference.”

Tony pouts, offended. “What do you take me for, an amateur? They’re not gonna know.”

“Sorry, didn’t know you were so experienced in removing subdermal trackers.”

“I mean, _technically_ this is the first time, but it’s _tech_ , Rogers. I could probably do it with my eyes closed.”

“Please don’t.”

“You take all the fun out of things. Okay, lie down on your stomach. You can put your head on that cushion.”

Steve lies down as directed, and doesn’t wince when Tony inserts the needle in his arm. Tony had promised him the anesthetic wouldn’t put him to sleep; he just has to trust that the other man is telling the truth.

“You feeling anything yet?” Tony asks, fiddling with the IV bag.

“Not yet.”

He listens to Tony moving around, fussing with something beyond Steve’s sight. A slow lethargy overtakes him, weighing down his limbs, easing the tension in his muscles. He’s not sleepy, not exactly, but he feels—relaxed, his mind slowing its frenetic pace.

“Tony?” Even his voice sounds slow.

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s working.”

“Okay, okay. Can you feel this?”

Pressure on his back, dull and far away. “A little? Is that—is that your finger?”

“That was me jabbing you with a pen, actually, so I’d say it’s working. I’m gonna get started, so tell me if anything hurts.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Steve tells him, “I can hold still.”

“Can you please just stop being all noble and stoic for, like, half an hour?” says Tony irritably. “Just tell me if it hurts, it’s not that hard.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop bringing up your traumatic tortured backstory, I can’t handle it.”

“Sorry.”

“And stop _apologizing_ , it makes me feel like an asshole.”

“S—okay.”

There’s a ripping noise, accompanied by the smell of alcohol, and then Tony’s dabbing Steve’s back with disinfectant; the sensation is oddly muted, as though Steve’s skin has grown a layer of cotton between the epidermis and hypodermis. His hands feel too big, like he’s a little kid wearing a grown man’s work-gloves, and his mouth feels soft and fuzzy. He bites his lip, and tastes rubber.

 _No, not good_ , he thinks, and tries to redirect his attention. He blames the painkillers for what comes out of his mouth.

“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you like me?”

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then nothing for a long moment. Finally, Tony exhales and says, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s a bad idea to startle someone with a scalpel?”

“Mostly they just told me to quit crying.”

“What did I _just say_ about bringing up the torture thing?!”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“That’s because it’s a stupid question! I mean—I don’t—why would you even _think_ that?”

It takes Steve a moment to sort through his response; his thoughts seem both very clear and somewhat slow to form, like train cars being pulled into position and painstakingly linked together. 

“I see the way you are with the others,” he says eventually. “You always treated me different. And I know you’re trying to be nice, because you—pity me, but… You’ve never liked me.”

“Rogers…”

“I kept trying to please you,” Steve continues conversationally. It feels as though his voice is coming from a long way away, slow but unstoppable as an avalanche. The words he’s been stuffing down for so long have finally found their opening, and he’s helpless to close the breach. “I was so scared you’d send me back. But nothing I said or did made a difference.” He wishes he could turn his head enough to see Tony’s expression. “I wish you’d tell me what I did wrong. I never meant to—offend you, but you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me.”

“You—you didn’t do anything wrong.” Tony’s voice is strained.

“I must’ve done something, or you wouldn’t hate me so much.”

“I don’t hate you.” Tony’s hands land on his back, and Steve feels the distant sting of the scalpel, like a fingernail dragging down his skin. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be distracting me when I’m literally cutting you open.”

“You like being distracted,” Steve says fuzzily. “It helps you focus.”

“That is simultaneously the best and worst description I’ve ever heard of my ADHD, so thanks for that.”

“For your… what?” He thinks of Howard. “Is that a euphemism for something?”

“What… no? Oh my God, Rogers, not everything is—it means Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. It’s a—it means my brain has issues with focusing. Among other things.”

There’s a _tick_ sound as he drops the implant on the metal tray. “Aaand that’s the sedative out. I’m amazing, and a genius, you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Steve says obediently.

“You know, you being _sincere_ really takes the fun out of it.”

The prick of the needle feels like a finger pressing hard against his back as Tony begins sewing his skin together again. He chases the thread of the conversation back to its root; there had been something important, something he needed to know…

He finally grasps it, and what’s left of his common-sense struggles briefly with his drugged mind before reaching a compromise he’ll probably regret once he’s sober: “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”

Tony sighs. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

Something dark and ugly fills his throat. He doesn’t answer.

For nearly a full minute, the quiet is only broken by the rustle of thread and the click of the hemostats, punctuated by the snip of Tony’s scissors when he finishes a stitch.

“My dad never stopped looking for you, you know,” he says at last, and Steve’s not sure whether it’s a change of subject or the beginning of some roundabout explanation. “He funded an expedition to the Arctic every year right up until he died.”

Steve presses his cheek against the too-smooth fabric of the cushion, and tries to decide how he feels about that. Surprised, mostly—and weirdly guilty, as though he’s let Howard down somehow by not being found until after he died. “He knew I was still alive?”

“What? No. At least, I don’t think so. He never—I mean, everyone thought you were dead.”

“Then why did he keep looking for me?” Steve asks, baffled. “I was _dead._ ”

“Sentimentality?” He can almost hear the shrug in Tony’s voice. “I mean, you were his long-lost best friend, Captain America, a _hero_ …”

There’s undisguised bitterness in Tony’s voice, but Steve can’t quite figure out why.

“That doesn’t sound like Howard,” he says.

“What?”

“I mean, Howard was great and all, but… he was a prag—pragmantis… practical. I can’t imagine him spending years looking for me because of…” A thought hits him. “Maybe it was the vibernum? Vibranium.”

“ _What_?”

“I mean, vibranium’s really rare, right? And my shield is made of it, so maybe he wanted to find it and—and use it for something else? Or… the serum, he never really got a chance to study it when I was alive, maybe it would’ve been easier with a corpse…”

“A corpse?”

“Well, yeah, you can just chop bits off without worrying about it hurting. I mean, obviously, Ross’s guys don’t care about that, but Howard was usually pretty, um, eth… ethical about that kind of thing. Or, well, at least he asked nicely…”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Tony interrupts. “Are you seriously saying you think my dad was only looking for you for—for _spare parts_?”

Steve tries to duck his head and ends up just smushing his face into the cushion. “I’m not criticizing him,” he assures Tony hastily. “I just—Howard never seemed like the, uh, whatsit, with emotions… sentimental. I can’t picture him going to all that trouble just so he could bury me someplace else.”

There’s a long silence. “How close were you, really?” Tony asks after a while. “I’m making the second incision, by the way, so try not to move.”

Steve keeps perfectly still, though he’s more tempted than ever to twist around so he can see Tony’s face. He’s not sure why he thought having this conversation while lying face-down was a good idea. _Oh, that’s right. I didn’t think at all._

“He was a friend,” he says slowly, “we were friends, but I wouldn’t say… I didn’t know him _well_. He was… we didn’t see much of each other. I was in the field, and he… wasn’t.” _Sitting pretty in his lab, makin’ more guns to blow ourselves up with,_ Dum-Dum had said once, with the disdain of a working man toward those who profited off his labor. _That guy’s never gonna be cannon-fodder for the Krauts, not if he can help it._

 _Would you rather we fought with sticks, instead?_ Bucky had answered sarcastically. _We’re not gonna win a war without guns, Dum-Dum, even you oughta know that much._

“The way he talked, I always thought you guys were—closer than that. He really talked you up. Wouldn’t shut up about you, in fact.” Tony gives a short, bitter laugh. “When I was a kid, you were my hero. Captain America, the perfect man.”

“And then you met me,” Steve says, realization dawning, “and I wasn’t—I didn’t measure up.” He almost shakes his head, and stops himself just in time. “I’m sorry, Tony. I guess Howard must’ve given you a very different imper…  impression of me. I can’t blame you for being disappointed.”

He knows he can’t even try to measure up to whatever glowing image Howard painted of him. Steve was never a hero; he remembers all his inadequacies, all his failures, with painful clarity. As for who he is now… well. Whatever spark Erskine and Howard had seen in him clearly went into the ice and never came out.

There’s a _plink_ and a rolling noise; Tony has dropped the scalpel.

“What? No! Oh my God, that is like, the _opposite_ —Rogers— _Steve_ …” He draws a ragged breath, and mutters, “This is the worst time for this,” before reaching across Steve’s line of vision to grab a pair of forceps.

“Okay,” he says, in a tone of forced calm. “Listen, that was _not_ the issue, it’s not you, it’s me, I know that’s a cliché, but it’s actually true, so just—stop thinking that, okay? My dad was obsessed with you, he spent most of my childhood looking for you and talking about you and just—generally fanboying over you, and I—it got to me, okay, that you were just this amazing perfect person who I could never, ever live up to.

“And, like, it wasn’t enough that you were perfect, it was—I could never do anything right, nothing I did was as good as what Dad could do, he never—he never seemed to care about me unless I was in trouble, so I just kept getting in trouble, and I know, I know I was a fuck-up, I still am, but I—I thought I was doing okay, leading the team, saving the world, and then _you_ turn up, and suddenly you’re all Fury wants, it’s Steve Rogers this and Captain America that, and it’s like being a fucking kid again, and then you finally get here and the first words out of your mouth were that you knew my dad.”

There’s a fraught little pause, filled with Tony’s too-rapid breathing.

“Tony, I… I don’t know what to say,” Steve says at last. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Actually, please don’t. I do actually need to concentrate on this part.”

Steve shuts up, setting his slow mind to processing everything Tony told him, filling in the gaps between the words, the negative space around what he’s said aloud.

Howard hadn’t been much of a father, he can see that much. He can imagine it all too easily, Tony growing up struggling for any scrap of affection from his father, competing with a dead man for the love and attention that should have been his birthright. Tony’s jabs and silences make sense now; he must have seen Steve as competition, a threat to his hard-won place on the team, a reminder of his father’s unreasonable expectations and Tony’s failure to meet them.

He feels an abrupt swell of grief for the unloved child in Tony’s past, and for Howard, who had put his considerable energy and talent into all the wrong channels. He doesn’t understand how anyone could see their own child as something other than inherently precious; his own mother had put his wellbeing above all else, and the Barnes family had been large and loud and unstinting in their affection.

It feels like a betrayal of sorts, to bring a child into the world and then neglect him.

“Okay, JARV, you got a read on this thing?” Tony asks.

“Scanning finished, sir.”

“Perfect. Alright, let’s see what they—are you kidding me? Oh, this is rich. It’s like they’re not even _trying_!”

Steve remains quiet while Tony fiddles with the device, complaining about the incompetence of whoever designed it the whole time. It’s about ten minutes before he addresses Steve again.

“Okay, Freezer Pop, let’s get this tracker back in.”

“You’re sure they won’t know?” Steve asks, hating the vulnerability in his voice.

“Don’t insult me, Rogers. The only information they’re getting through that thing is what I send them. And you’ll be healed before you go back—they’ll never even suspect.”

He releases a pent-up breath, relieved that Tony can’t see his expression. “Thank you, Tony.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Oh my God, Rogers.”

“No, I’m serious,” Steve insists. “You were his _kid_ , you should have meant the _world_ to him, and he just—he just—you should never have felt like you weren’t good enough. You should never have been second-place to a goddamn _ghost_.”

“You say that, but you didn’t meet me as a kid.” Tony’s voice is light, but Steve thinks he can hear the strain beneath it. “I was kind of a handful.”

Steve closes his eyes, emotion clogging his throat at the all-too-familiar sentiment. Maybe it’s just the painkillers talking, but… he needs to make this right. His fingers flex, close into a fist, as he prepares to bare a little bit more of his wounded soul. He has to make this right.

“When I was a kid, I heard a couple of ladies talking in church,” he says quietly. “They were talking about my mom, about how hard it must be for her, to have a cripple for a son. They said it would’ve been better, if I’d died—then at least she wouldn’t have another mouth to feed. Poor Sarah Rogers, wearing herself to the bone for a… a troublesome _crip_ who wasn’t gonna make it to adulthood anyway.”

There’s a short silence. For once, Tony doesn’t seem to have anything to say.

“I made the mistake of telling my ma. The next Sunday, after church, she went up to them and slapped them right across the face. Said nobody talked about her son that way. They were so surprised, they just gawped. We never went back to that church again.”

He takes a breath, trying to settle the old rage and humiliation back into its familiar place, firmly locked away in his chest. Something that took place nearly twenty years ago—or almost ninety, depending on your point of view—shouldn’t still hurt so much. “The thing is, they weren’t the only ones. Nobody thought I’d ever amount to anything, with my health, with the way I was always getting into trouble. Nobody thought I was worth the trouble she took, to take care of me. But she was the one who taught me to fight in the first place. She said that everyone’d try to push me down—that’s the way the world works. But the key is that you can’t stay down. You always have to stand back up. You… always have to stand back up.”

“I just—I was _worthless_ , Tony. Everyone said so. I’d never’ve amounted to anything, probably, if it hadn’t been for my ma, and—and the Barneses. And even with that—if it hadn’t been for Erskine, if it hadn’t been for the serum, I would’ve just been some nobody in Brooklyn, would’ve probably died before I hit thirty. But you—you’ve made something of yourself, and you didn’t have super-serum, and Howard wasn’t—Howard clearly wasn’t any kind of father, but… I read. About some of the stuff you did. About the, um, the Ring people. Ten Rings. Take away Iron Man, and you’re still brilliant, you’re still _you._ Take away the serum, and I’m… nothing.”

He sighs, squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I just—I don’t want you thinking—I was friends with Howard, but I don’t want you thinking that means I’d—that I’d judge you, or look down on you, or—or anything. I’d—I’d be an awful hyp… damn, the thing with the— _hypocrite_ , I’d be a hypocrite, if I did.”

The forceps clatter onto the tray; Tony’s finished stitching him up.

“I’m gonna shut off the IV drip now,” he says, “before you spill anything else you might regret later.”

Steve turns his face into the cushion, flushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“No, fuck, I didn’t mean it that way, I just meant—I don’t know if you really wanted to tell me all that.”

“Not really,” says Steve, muffled, “but I thought I should. I’m sorry, if that was too much, or—”

“Steve, for fuck’s sake, stop apologizing. Let’s just—start over again, okay? Without Dad in the way.”

Steve turns his head to look at Tony, who is crouched next to him to remove the IV from his elbow. “I’d like that.”

“Okay.” Tony takes a deep breath. “And for the record, I don’t think you’d be nothing without the serum.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I mean it.”

Steve doesn’t believe him; he can still hear Tony’s voice in his head saying, _everything special about him came from a bottle_ , but he’s too wrung out to argue. “Okay,” he says instead.

“You should wait a little while before getting up,” says Tony. “Give everything a chance to heal.”

“Okay.” He hesitates, but the idea of being left alone here, vulnerable, with nothing to distract him from his thoughts, is intolerable. “Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay?”

Tony squints at him. “You want me to?”

“Never mind, that was stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t—I just—I’ve been a total dick to you, Rogers.”

“Thought we were starting over.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “Yeah, but—you can’t honestly be okay with all of that! Everything I’ve said…”

Steve considers. Most of Tony’s prior behavior, he thinks he can understand, but… “The plane,” he says at last. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m an _asshole_ , Rogers.”

Steve waits, patient, and Tony finally blows out a breath.

“I figured you’d be a homophobic asshole, like my dad, so I thought it’d be funny to freak you out. I thought you were—I thought you were just mad because, you know, manly-man like you getting hit on by a guy, I never realized you might… you might think….”

“I didn’t know I could say no,” Steve says quietly.

Tony swallows. “Yeah. _God_ , I feel like such a douchebag.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I could have tried harder to guess.”

Steve sighs. The drug is beginning to wear off; he can feel it in a returning clarity of thought, although he still doesn’t feel any pain, and he still feels nicely relaxed. “Okay, if you want to beat up on yourself, sure.”

“Yeah, I’m good at that.”

“Better than you are at apologizing, at least,” says Steve lightly.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, putting the pieces together, I’m assuming that’s why you’ve been avoiding me. Because you felt guilty?”

Tony gapes at him, then throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, fine, you win! Man, you’re obnoxious.”

Steve suppresses a smirk, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Tony finally says. “For treating you like a dick, and the whole thing on the plane, and making you think I hated you. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Steve easily. “You’re forgiven. Do you feel better?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Steve laughs. “It’s okay, Tony. It really is. We’re okay.”

Tony mutters something about insufferable old men who think they know everything, but Steve thinks the set of his shoulders eases somewhat, and a small smile curves the corners of his mouth as he goes to fetch a tablet.

By hanging his head off the side of the couch, Steve can watch as Tony pencils lines onto the screen.  He doesn’t understand everything in Tony’s rambling narration of what he’s doing, but he knows he’s building something amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Tony performs minor surgery on Steve to get the tracker out; non-graphic.
> 
> I looked up the phrase "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all", and apparently it's a line from _Bambi _(1942), but probably was in use earlier. So I feel like it's possible that Steve would know it.__
> 
> __Fire opals supposedly DO have the properties Thor describes, according to a bunch of crystal websites._ _
> 
> __Thanks for all your comments, guys! You make me so happy. :)_ _


	11. Property

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Torture, canon-typical violence, body horror. More info in endnotes.
> 
> Guys... I'm sorry.

_Ah, love, let us be true_

_To one another! for the world [….]_

_Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,_

_Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;_

_And we are here as on a darkling plain_

_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_

_Where ignorant armies clash by night._

\--“Dover Beach”, Matthew Arnold

 

 

“Rogers.” It’s the red-haired lieutenant, who seems to be in charge of the everyday trivialities of Steve and Bucky’s existence. He’s never bothered to tell Steve his name, and Steve knows better than to ask.

“Lieutenant.”

“We’ve got a mission for you. Come with me; you need to suit up.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, somewhat taken aback. All his missions so far have been for SHIELD; the change in routine is jarring. Coming so soon after making escape plans with the Avengers, it’s also more than a little worrisome. What if this is it? What if Ross won’t let him go back?

The uniform he’s given is not the navy-blue jumpsuit he uses for the Avengers, nor is it a typical Army uniform. Instead, it’s composed of heavy pants and a reinforced jacket of speckled black and dark grey, presumably bullet-proof, a black helmet, and a mask like Bucky’s.

“You’ll be taking orders from Captain Collins,” the lieutenant says. “You will do as you’re told. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” In Ross’s Army, Steve isn’t a Captain; he’s an Asset. That means he’s consistently the lowest ranking person in any situation. Now that he thinks about it, he probably should have noticed that SHIELD agents always use his former rank, while the Army personnel never do. He’d just sort of assumed that it was another way to get into his head—Fury holding the carrot, Ross the stick.

“Do _not_ talk to the other soldiers, unless it’s directly related to the mission. Don’t give them your first name, and don’t make eye-contact.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Alright, get going.”

He’s used to getting briefed in the jet with the Avengers, so he’s not particularly surprised to be bundled, first into a car with blacked-out windows, and then onto a small plane, without being told what’s going on. There’s a team of ten soldiers, all dressed in black kit similar to his, waiting in the belly of the plane, and the jet starts taxiing the minute he’s strapped in.

Captain Collins, a tall man with greying hair and a jaw like an axe-blade, approaches him once the plane is in flight. “Rogers.”

“Sir.”

“We have word of terrorists occupying a town in Yemen. Any civilians have fled from the area, or they’ve been killed. We are going to take back the town and remove the threat. Your job is to lead the vanguard. Assume anyone you see are hostiles. We want to kill or capture all of them, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Steve bites back his questions; with his and Bucky’s extraction looming, he can’t afford to screw this up. Instead, he just leans back in his seat, and waits.

 

The village they land in bears signs of recent conflict: burned-out vehicles, houses with broken doors and windows, and a pervading silence that speaks of abandonment. Steve thinks of villages in France and Belgium, remembering houses flattened by German tanks and Allied guns, and chickens still pecking in the rubble while shells whistled overhead. For all the setting is different, this feels much the same.

They clear the village house by house, street by street, with ruthless efficiency. Once they’ve established a perimeter, Collins orders them to split off in teams of two to cover more ground.

Steve, heading to the back of a house while his partner goes through the front, is suddenly confronted by one of the terrorists, brandishing a rifle that looks at least ten years behind what Steve himself is carrying.

They’re close enough that Steve doesn’t bother to draw a weapon; instead, he closes the distance in two strides, grabs the rifle, and twists it out of the other man’s hands. The man makes a noise of pure terror and tries to dodge backward, but Steve grabs his shoulder before he can get away.

His very bony, very narrow shoulder.

For the first time, Steve gets a good look at his opponent, and his heart sinks. He’s just a kid. _Maybe_ sixteen at most, malnourished, and obviously terrified.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You’re a _kid_.”

The boy stares at him in mute incomprehension.

“You don’t speak English, huh? How about _Français_? _Deutsche? Italiano?_ ”

“ _Deutsche_ ,” the kid says hesitantly, his voice the scratchy pitch of mid-pubescence. “ _Ich spreche ein bisschen Deutsch._ ”

“Okay.” Steve sighs, knowing he’s about to do something very stupid, and also knowing it’s the only way to live with himself. “ _You stay here, you will be killed. You understand?_ ”

The kid nods, eyes wide.

“ _And if I take you, you will not like it. Understand?_ ”

Another nod.

_“So I will give you a,_ um, _a chance. You hide, until we—the Americans—leave. Then you will not die. Understand?”_

The boy frowns at him. _“Why?_ ”

“ _Because you’re just a boy. And you should have a—another chance. Will you hide?_ ”

For a long moment, the kid just looks up at him, scared and mistrustful and so goddamned young. Finally, he says, _“Yes. Show me._ ”

Still keeping a grip on his arm, Steve leads him around the back of the building, noting a chicken coop in the small yard. With a quick look around, he opens the door of the coop, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The chickens are gone, no doubt killed off to feed the occupiers of the village.

“ _In here. Stay until night. If you don’t, you die. You understand?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ” The boy still hesitates, but at a gentle push, climbs inside, curling up small beneath the nesting boxes.

“ _Stay safe. Good luck._ ” Steve shuts the door and hooks the latch, knowing the boy will be able to break through the door when the time comes.

He heads into the house, hoping to God the kid stays put and undiscovered, and joins with his partner in the main room.

“Hey Rogers, what took you so long?”

“There was a chicken coop. Wanted to make sure no one was inside.”

The other man nods. “You’re real thorough, huh? Let’s check the attic.”

 

The problem is, now that Steve knows at least some of their enemies are kids, it makes him a lot more hesitant to just open fire. His attempts to make sure, to engage at close quarters and reason with his opponents, gets him shot point-blank in the chest and abdomen, along with a nice stab in the thigh. If it wasn’t for his uniform, the shots would have been fatal; as it is, the bullets still penetrate partway through. His Avengers suit, of course, would have protected him even at this short range, but it’s a little late to wish for that.

Collins is apoplectic. “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?” he bellows once they’re safely on the plane. “You could have taken them out at range! There was NO NEED to engage at close quarters! Explain yourself!”

Steve sighs, a headache building in addition to his other injuries. “I thought I could capture them. I didn’t want to kill needlessly.”

“Those were not your orders, Rogers!”

“You said kill _or_ capture,” Steve points out, unable to help himself.

Collins glares at him. “Not at the cost of getting _injured_ , you imbecile!” He turns to the medic, who is patiently digging for the bullet lodged against his rib. “Bandage him up and leave him alone. Instructions are to postpone any non-lifesaving medical procedures for him until we’re back at base.”

The medic raises his eyebrows, and Collins scowls more fiercely.

“If you’ve got a problem, you can take it up with Ross. Just take care of what you have to.”

“Okay, sir,” says the medic with obvious reluctance, and begins packing the wound with gauze.

Steve closes his eyes, and tries to breathe through the pain.

 

By the time they get back to base, the adrenaline from the mission has worn off, and he’s finding it harder and harder to ignore the pain from his injuries. The injury to his thigh, in particular, throbs with every step.

He’s stripped of his weapons and sent to medical, where they reopen his healing wounds to get the bullets out.

“Does he need stitches?” someone asks.

“Smith said there’s no need. Apparently he needs to learn a lesson.”

“Hey, Williams, get a move on, they’re waiting for debrief.”

“Rogers—Rogers!”

A slap to the face, and he blinks, having lost track of things for a moment. “Sir?”

“Focus. You’re holding us up, here.”

Into a small, claustrophobic room for a debrief, where thankfully he only has to corroborate what Collins tells them, standing as straight as he can while his legs grow increasingly shaky. He answers their questions in a flat, even voice, staring straight ahead, and only stumbles a little when he’s dismissed.

“Get that uniform off him. Tell the Asset to take him back to his cell.”

His abdominal muscles are screaming with every new movement, fighting for attention beside the throbbing in his leg and the sharp, lancing pain in his chest. The reopened bullet wounds are still bleeding sluggishly, hot blood trickling down his side and sticking to his shirt and pants.

Someone shakes his shoulder.

“Boots. Off. Now.”

“Yessir,” he says automatically, and bends to untie them. Everything spins, and when the world levels out again, he’s on the floor, leaning against the wall to remain upright. A familiar dark head impedes his line of vision, and he makes an aborted gesture to touch before remembering himself.

“B—Soldat?”

Bucky, predictably, doesn’t answer, but the sudden airflow to Steve’s left foot tells him Bucky’s just removed one of his boots.

“Get him out of that and take him back to his cell,” says a second voice. “And don’t take all day, understand?”

“He’s hurt.” Bucky’s voice is soft, almost questioning, and Steve feels his heart melt a little at the implication of concern.

There’s a silence. Steve raises his eyes in time to catch the startled looks of the two guys in the room with them, and realizes this is probably as close to talking back as Bucky’s come in—well, a long time, probably.

“It’s non-fatal,” one of them says finally, “and it’s none of your concern. Take his gear off, take him back to his cell. That is an order. Understood?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

The second guy kicks him. “That was an _order, Soldat_.”

Bucky hunches his shoulders. “Ready to comply,” he whispers.

Asshole Number Two is still looking at him suspiciously, but Asshole Number One shoves Number Two’s shoulder. “Whatever, let’s go. I’m tired of babysitting duty.”

They leave, and Bucky finally meets his eyes; his forehead is creased with concern. “You’re hurt,” he repeats, still softly, and still unsure, like the evidence of his senses might be false.

“Yeah, B-bud,” says Steve, letting his head fall back against the wall. “But I’ll be alright. I’ve had worse.”

Bucky just frowns, and tugs off his other boot. They remain silent as he helps Steve out of the rest of his uniform, leaving him in the under-armor he wears beneath it.

“Can you stand up?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just grips the back of Bucky’s uniform and attempts to lever himself off the floor. Bucky wraps an arm around his back, half-supporting, half dragging him to his feet.

He sways for a moment, blinking spots from his eyes, until he no longer feels like he’s trapped on a particularly speedy merry-go-round. “’M alright, B-bud,” he mutters, still clutching Bucky’s shoulder. “’M alright.”

“I have to take you to your cell,” Bucky says. His arm is a steady, unyielding support at Steve’s back, shoring him up.

“Okay.”

They shuffle slowly down the hall, with Steve leaning on Bucky more and more with every step. Without the adrenaline and the distraction of battle to sustain him, he’s feeling his injuries more acutely than ever; he can no longer put any weight on his right leg without agony, and he can feel each and every bullet wound like a brand. The hall seems narrower than usual, a thin line of light half-swallowed by the encroaching blackness at the sides of his vision. His throat is so dry he’s almost sure he’ll choke on it, and there’s a headache pounding at his temples.

_Blood loss_ , he thinks, and then, a little hysterically, _I should get saltines or something. Or—bananas. Maybe if I had a banana I wouldn’t—wouldn’t—_

He stumbles, derailing that particular train of thought, and it’s only Bucky’s grip around his waist that keeps him from falling.

“Steve.”

It hurts—everything hurts, and this hallway is so goddamned _long—_

“ _Steve._ ”

“Bucky?” He’s sitting on the floor again. How did he get on the floor?

Bucky’s face swims into view, anxiety clearly visible in his eyes above the mask. “Steve, you’re bleeding.”

“I got shot,” he explains. “Twice. And stabbed. Ow.”

There’s a long moment of silence, then Bucky mutters something that sounds like _fuck it_ , and bends down, slipping an arm behind Steve’s back and the other under his knees...

“Buck...?”

“Shut _up_ , Rogers,” he says, and Steve finds himself being carried, his head resting against Bucky’s bulky shoulder, and everything still hurts but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, because Bucky’s _here_ , and he’s got him, and he doesn’t need to worry because Bucky will take care of him.

 

Bucky lays him down on a hard mattress and begins undressing him. Steve tries to help, but mostly just gets in the way, arms getting tangled in the fabric until Bucky holds him down with one hand and yanks his shirt over his head with the other. When his torso is finally exposed, Bucky probes his wounds with careful, clever fingers, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“’S not as bad as it looks,” Steve assures him, and is rewarded with an exasperated look.

“It is _exactly_ as bad as it looks,” says Bucky. “Bullets?”

“No, they took them out.”

“Good.” He presses something wet against the wound on Steve’s ribs—alcohol, from the sting.

It’s only a minor discomfort in comparison to the intensity of his injuries, but it still makes him hiss, more in surprise than anything else. The light pressure on his ribcage disappears immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” Bucky’s eyes, when Steve manages to focus on them, are worried above the mask.

“No,” Steve assures him. “It was just the disinfectant—surprised me.”

“Always so dramatic,” Bucky mutters, and then freezes, looking incredibly surprised.

Steve smiles at him, helplessly fond. “So you keep telling me.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and lapses into silence again, methodically cleaning Steve’s wounds and taping them over with gauze. It’s a familiar feeling, having Bucky take care of him, and Steve allows himself to drift, comfortable in the knowledge that, for now at least, he is safe.

 

When he comes back to himself, he’s nearly naked, covered by a scratchy blanket, and everything hurts. He turns his head and sees Bucky sitting on the floor next to him, facing the door. His mask is gone, and without it, his profile is heartbreakingly familiar.

“Bucky?” he rasps. “What are you doing on the floor?”

Bucky’s eyebrows draw together, like it’s a stupid question. “Keeping watch.”

“But you’re on the floor?”

His expression indicates that this, too, is a stupid question.

“I mean, you could sit on the bed. I don’t mind.” He shifts over, to illustrate the point, and gasps as all his injuries vehemently protest the movement.

“Stop moving,” Bucky orders, placing a metal hand on his shoulder. “Idiot.”

Happiness inflates Steve’s chest like a balloon. It feels so _good_ to be bullied by Bucky again. He tries to school his expression into something appropriately meek. “Sorry.”

Bucky snorts. “Idiot,” he repeats, and walks to the miniscule bathroom alcove, returning with a plastic cup. “Here. Drink.”

“Help me sit up?”

Bucky sighs, put upon, but gets his arm around Steve’s shoulders and helps him upright, slipping in behind him so Steve can lean against him. He reaches around Steve’s body to hold the cup to his lips. “Drink.”

Steve obeys, draining the cup in a few sips. He lets his head settle back against Bucky’s shoulder, breathing in the leather-and-gun-oil scent that clings to him even out of combat gear. In the old days, Bucky had always smelled like Brylcreem and 4711 cologne, and a little like cigarettes, for all he rarely smoked. It’s odd that for all the changes, he still smells like home.

God, but everything hurts.

“How long was I out?” he asks.

“Not long. Maybe an hour.”

“This is your room, isn’t it?” It’s almost the same as Steve’s—same size, just as bare—but a first-aid kit and some of Bucky’s clothes are piled neatly against the wall, and his bed has more blankets.

Bucky tenses a little, his hand clenching on the blankets. “Yes.”

“Will you… will you get in trouble for this?”

The tiniest hint of a tremor enters Bucky’s voice. “Yes.”

_I’m sorry_ , Steve means to say, or, _you didn’t have to do this_ , or _why_ , or even _thank you_ , but what comes out of his mouth is, “Do you remember me?”

Bucky shifts a little, his cheek brushing against Steve’s hair. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

Hope and sadness tangle in Steve’s throat. He blinks rapidly, all too aware of the warmth and solidity of Bucky’s body behind him. He knows he should move away, that he’s taking advantage, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s injured; maybe he’s allowed to be a little selfish.

“You helped me, though,” he murmurs. “You’re helping me.”

“You were hurt,” says Bucky. “I had to. I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you suffer.” He takes a breath, then says tremulously, “They’re going to wipe me.”

Steve sits bolt upright, gasps in pain, and hunches over, holding his side, until the spots have faded from his vision and he can breathe again. “You mean—they’ll take your memories? Make you forget?” he demands, as soon as he can speak.

“Lie down, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Buck—”

“Lie _down_ ,” Bucky repeats, enforcing the command with a push to Steve’s chest and a supporting hand at his back.

Steve lets himself be lowered back to the mattress, his head now resting in Bucky’s lap. His friend peers down at him with a look of concern so familiar he could draw it with his eyes closed. It probably says something about their relationship that it is that expression, more than any other, that Steve associates with him.

“Bucky,” he says again, a plea for information.

Bucky sighs. “I’m becoming unstable,” he says softly. “Outmoded. And soon I will be replaced. It was going to happen anyway, but…”

“But?”

His eyes crinkle, like they do when he smiles, but his expression is still unspeakably sad. “This insubordination—I have never done something like this before. They will want to fix me.”

“You’re not broken,” says Steve fiercely.

“A soldier who breaks protocol? Who cannot be trusted to follow orders? I am a liability. An expensive one, at that.”

“You’re a _person_. You’re a good man.”

“Steve,” says Bucky gently, and God, to hear his name in that voice is such an exquisite agony. “You cannot stop this. You will not change their minds, and if you fight it—” His voice breaks. “They can wipe you, too.”

Steve closes his eyes, biting back the arguments that spring to his tongue. He knows Bucky is right—or rather, he is mostly right. The Avengers could stop this, but he doesn’t dare tell Bucky that. They’ve already given far too much away to whoever is listening in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For everything.”

“So am I.” Bucky touches his face, uncertainly, and then just rests his hand there, callused fingers warm against Steve’s cheek. “You need to rest. You’ll heal faster.”

“Okay, Buck.” He raises a hand to the back of his neck, as though to cushion his head, and searches for the button hidden beneath his hair. Tony was as good as his word; it hasn’t moved or been detected, still safe at the base of his skull.

_Once if you need us to crash in that second. Twice if you need us as soon as possible, but still legal. Three if you need us to contact you somehow._

Closing his eyes, he jabs it twice, and lets his hand fall away. Despite the pain, he feels oddly light; for better or worse, he’s done all he can. The rest is in someone else’s hands.

 

He wakes up sometime later, disoriented. The first thing he feels is the burn of wounds knitting themselves together; the second is Bucky’s fingers in his hair, slowly stroking. He opens his eyes, and meets Bucky’s serious gaze.

“They’ll be coming soon,” he says.

Steve nods, trying not to show his sudden jolt of fear. “Help me up?”

Wordlessly, Bucky does so, supporting him to his feet before propping him against the wall. Steve knows he doesn’t have to explain about wanting to be upright to face whatever is coming to them—Bucky already knows. Despite his dread of what happens next, he can’t help but feel grateful—grateful that Bucky is here, beside him. Grateful that, whatever else happens, it’ll be the two of them against the world, just as it’s always been.

_It’s almost worth it_ , he thinks, just as the door opens and soldiers come spilling in.

 

“Soldat,” Ross says, his face white with fury. “Explain yourself.”

They’re in one of the rooms Steve thinks of, a little melodramatically, as a torture chamber, a concrete cell with a sturdy metal table in the center and shelves of surgical equipment along one wall.

Steve, still exhausted from the healing process, is half-leaning on the three men holding him, his arms cuffed in front of him. Bucky stands between his own guards, but he is unbound; Ross clearly still trusts his “programming” to hold.

“He was hurt,” Bucky says softly. “I just—I thought—”

“Your job is not to _think_ , Soldat,” Ross says coldly. “Your job is to obey.”

Bucky hangs his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You will be.” Ross beckons to the men on either side of Steve. “Bring him here.”

They shuffle him forward, still limping on his right leg.

“You care for him,” Ross says to Bucky.

Bucky says nothing, his face still as stone.

Ross slaps him, hard enough that the sound echoes around the small room, making Steve wince in sympathy. “Answer me!”

“Yes,” Bucky whispers. “Yes, I do. Sir.”

“You failed to follow orders,” says Ross. “Therefore, you will be punished.”

Bucky’s spine straightens, and he lifts his chin, almost proudly. “Yes, sir.”

“Your punishment is to see him hurt,” Ross says softly. There’s a sick sort of triumph in his gaze, a malicious pleasure in what is about to happen.

There’s a moment where Bucky doesn’t react at all; then he whips his head around, staring at Steve with a look of wide-eyed despair. He says nothing, but he doesn’t need to; Steve can read his eyes as well as any book, and he can see the message there: _I’m sorry_ and _I didn’t mean for this to happen_ and _There’s nothing I can do_.

He tries his best to look reassuring, but it’s hard to do when one of the burlier men is stepping up to him, when a fist flies toward his face and he can’t get away, can’t avoid it or retaliate. All he can do is try to brace himself, and prepare to see this through.

There’s a nasty crunch as his nose breaks, bright white pain bursting in front of his eyes as hot blood runs down his face and dribbles down his chin. Steve staggers back, nearly bowling over the three men holding him before regaining his balance. Blood trickles down the back of his throat, making him gag.

Ross watches with an expression of cool distaste, as though this is all beneath him. “Soldat,” he says. “Hit him.”

Bucky hesitates, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

“Hit him,” Ross repeats.

There’s a long, agonizing pause, and then Steve cries out as electricity rips through his body, making all his muscles convulse. He falls to his hands and knees, panting ragged breaths as he tries to draw his trembling body back under his control.

Above him, Ross’s voice is cold and hard as a glacier. “If you disobey, he is punished, you understand? That goes for either of you. I can make it far, far worse than this. Soldat.”

“Sir?”

“Hit him.”

With an effort, Steve pushes himself to his knees, heart pounding with the aftereffects of the shock. He meets Bucky’s eyes, trying to give him the reassurance he dare not speak aloud. _It’s alright. I understand. Do what you have to do._

Perhaps Bucky understands, or maybe it’s Ross’s words that do the trick. Either way, his mouth firms and his eyes go hard, determined. He hauls Steve to his feet as though he weighs no more than a child and backs him up against the wall, bracing him with a metal arm against his chest.

“Now, Soldat,” Ross says, impatient, and Bucky’s fist connects solidly with Steve’s groin.

It is, objectively speaking, the least damaging place to hit: the injuries on his torso are still healing, his face is already a mess, and Ross surely won’t be satisfied with a blow to his arms or legs.

Subjectively, it hurts like a son of a bitch.

Steve isn’t proud of the sound he makes, a sort of strangled scream, or of the way he tries to curl in on himself, legs momentarily giving way. If it weren’t for Bucky’s arm across his chest, he’d probably be on the floor again.

“Again,” says Ross.

The second blow lands slightly above the first. Steve vomits all over the floor.

Bucky keeps him upright, his arm now hooked under Steve’s arms so he can lean forward slightly, enough that when he heaves again and spits up more blood, it lands on the floor and not himself.

Ross’s voice is laden with disgust. “Rogers.”

Steve lifts his head, vision slightly blurred with what he suspects are tears. He has no breath in his lungs to respond verbally.

“If you get… _creative_ again, he’ll get the same treatment. Do you understand?”

He nods.

“Soldat. You understand?”

Bucky’s voice is a dull monotone. “Yes, sir.”

“Get him on the table. Face up.”

He manages to get his legs under himself enough to stumble to the table, with Bucky still holding his shoulders, trying not to think about what comes next.

Hands push him down, fasten the restraints: _Ankles, knees, forehead, waist, chest, throat, right arm._

His left arm is stretched out perpendicular to his body, and cuffed in place. _Are they going to cut it off?_ he wonders, somewhat hysterically. _Do they want us to match?_

With his head tilted back, the blood from his nose runs down the back of his throat, choking him. He retches, coughs, retches again.

“Sir.” Bucky’s voice. “He’s asphyxiating.”

“Then fix the problem.”

“Yes, sir.” The restraints at his head and neck loosen, and Bucky turns his head to the side.

Steve gasps, coughs up blood, and finally inhales a shuddering breath. “’M okay,” he mutters, mostly for Bucky’s benefit, and is rewarded by the barest brush of fingers against his throat, a secret show of solidarity.

The strap across his forehead is tightened again, but this time with his head turned to the side, so his cheek is pressed into the table. Bucky has positioned him so he’s facing toward his right; he tries not to worry about that, about what’s going to happen next.

_They’re not going to kill me_ , he reassures himself. _I can handle anything else. Unless they’re going to wipe my memories—but surely—they use a chair for that, don’t they? Not a table—not—_

“Left upper arm,” Ross is saying. “Every five minutes, until you’re told to stop. Understood?”

Bucky’s voice, expressionless: “Yes, sir.”

“Then proceed.”

Bucky’s metal fingers wrap around Steve’s arm, just below the elbow. His finger beats against the underside of Steve’s arm, a countdown: _one, two, three—_

Steve braces himself—

And burning hot agony erupts in his arm. Literally burning; it feels like someone’s pressing an iron to his arm, the old-fashioned kind his ma used to have, that you filled with coals from the fire. He can smell his skin singeing, smell burnt hair and hear it hiss. Whatever was pressed to his arm lifts away, but the pain only lessens slightly, still throbbing and burning.

He clenches his teeth so as not to cry out, the taste of blood bitter iron in his mouth. Bucky’s hand is still on his arm, and he tries to focus on that, on the coolness of the metal fingers, the way they’re slowly digging bruises into his flesh.

There’s a beep, and Bucky’s finger counts _one, two, three_ , and the pain descends again, the smell of burning even stronger this time.

The third time, Steve can no longer hold back a pained whimper.

After the fourth time, Ross says, “Carry on, Soldat,” and there’s a crowd of footsteps and the bang of a door.

Bucky brushes the sweat-damp hair from Steve’s cheek. His hand is cold.

“Buck,” Steve whispers.

Bucky’s voice is equally quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“If I’d left you alone—”

“I still woulda been hurt. No right answers. It’s okay.”

Bucky’s sigh whiffles across Steve’s skin, but he doesn’t argue. After another moment, he says, “Brace yourself,” and the pain returns.

It gets more unbearable, not less, as it goes on, until Steve can barely distinguish between the burns themselves or the pain that comes after. At first, he tries not to scream, for Bucky’s sake, but after a while he can no longer hold it back.

_I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it_ , he thinks. _I can’t anymore!_

But there’s no alternative. The pain keeps coming and coming, and there’s no getting away from it. Not even unconsciousness comes to save him; all he can do is try to find some corner of his mind to retreat to, hide in the memory of Bucky’s hands on his skin, in the faint and rapidly fading hope of rescue.

Hours inch by without relief, until his voice is gone and his eyes are dry and swollen nearly shut. There is nothing but agony, swallowing him whole.

By the time Bucky is finally given permission to pull him off the table, to strap ice to his arm and carry him back to his cell, he is barely aware of it, trapped in the red haze of pain.

He feels himself lowered onto the mattress, swallows when water is tipped down his throat, and finally, finally drifts away.

 

At some point, he wakes up, blinks at the bright lights, and pulls the lukewarm icepack off his shoulder. His stomach turns at the sight that greets him.

Charred lines form a star within a square outline; the words _U.S. ARMY_ are emblazoned beneath it. The skin around the markings is red and blistered, weeping clear liquid and crusted with blood.

_They’ve branded me_ , he thinks numbly. _They burnt their logo into my skin._

He can’t bear to look at it any longer. Swallowing back the sick feeling in his throat, he rips the end off his blanket and stumbles with it to the sink, where he runs it under the tap. For a moment, he gets stuck staring at it again, morbidly fascinated with the way his skin has split open along the lines of the brand, revealing white, waxy tissue beneath. _Stop looking. Just cover it up._

With shaking hands, he wraps the damp cloth around his upper arm, clumsily knotting it with his right hand and his teeth. His left arm doesn’t seem to want to move much; it hurts when he tries to raise it, but parts of his deltoid are strangely numb.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

The burn might get infected. He doesn’t think anyone sterilized it. He doesn’t know how his serum will react to burns this bad, whether it will be able to counter any infection that sets in. The point of the repetition, the severity of the burn, would have been to make sure it can’t heal away; he’ll be stuck with the mark forever. He’ll have to hope they haven’t overshot their mark, that whatever damage they inflicted won’t cost him the use of his arm, or cause gangrene or necropsy or some other ghastly thing.

“Fuck,” he repeats, with emphasis, and limps back to bed.

 

He’s not sure how much time passes; he’s only fed once, but that could be punishment rations, and the pain and the sleeplessness it causes make the minutes feel like hours. The lights are turned off at some point, and the darkness makes it even harder to guess the passage of time. He presses the button again, just in case, then leaves it alone.

Either they’ll come, or they won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Steve gets shot, then punched, electrocuted, and branded (like, with a branding iron). Some descriptions of bleeding, vomit, and severe burns. 
> 
> The U.S. has been conducting drone/air strikes in Yemen since 2009, and there was confirmation of U.S special ops military presence in Yemen starting in 2012, with the goal of fighting Al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups there. These strikes have resulted in a number of civilian casualties. I'm not trying to imply that the people Steve is fighting are actually the good guys-- just that war is complex, especially in cases where many of the people fighting are doing so with very little understanding of what they're actually fighting for (or against).
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments, everyone! I appreciate them so much, you don't even know. Next update is tomorrow!


	12. Extraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Panic attack, references to past trauma.
> 
> Language: Italic is Russian, Cyrillic is Russian Steve doesn't understand. I used English spellings for a couple of Russian words (Niet, Soldat) to give a little bit of the flavor of the language, but please assume Steve understands anything in italic.  
> (Italic not in quotation marks is just his interpretation of others' body language-- hopefully it's pretty clear in context.)

_Natasha Romanoff: If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life, now, you be honest with me, would you trust me to do it?_

_Steve Rogers: I would now._

\-- _Captain America: Winter Soldier_

 

The door opens, interrupting his speculation on the likelihood of Bucky getting wiped while he’s stuck in this cell. The bright light momentarily blinds him; when he’s blinked the spots from his eyes, he finds Natasha in the doorway, wearing a SHIELD jacket and cap.

“Rogers.”

“Natasha,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “You’re here, you—are you…?”

“Here to get you out,” she confirms. “Got a warrant and everything. Come on, let’s go.”

He hesitates, looking down at his bare torso and feet, at the ragged bit of blanket still wrapped around his left arm. “You don’t, um, happen to have a shirt or anything I could wear, do you?”

“No, sorry.” Her gaze narrows. “What happened to your arm?”

“Burn.”

“Let me take a look at it.”

“No, don’t—”

Before he can finish, she’s untied the makeshift bandage. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“Please cover it up,” he says, glancing nervously at the group of SHIELD agents clustered outside the door. “I don’t want anyone to see.”

She nods, looking at him with a sympathy that he doesn’t think is entirely feigned. “I’ll wrap it back up, hang on.”

The pouch on her belt turns out to contain gauze bandages and some kind of ointment, which she smears on the brand before wrapping it in a clean bandage. “Okay, you’re all set. Now, let’s get out of here before Ross tries anything clever.”

The group of agents parts to let them through, and Natasha leads him over to a dark-haired white woman with a square jaw. “Steve, this is Maria Hill, Deputy Director of SHIELD. Agent Hill, Captain Steve Rogers.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says automatically.

Agent Hill’s mouth twitches. “Charmed, I’m sure,” she says, in a tone which manages to sound both polite and slightly sarcastic at the same time. Then, turning to one of the other agents, “Hendricks, would you be so kind as to lend the Captain your jacket?”

The man in question is the largest of the group, but his shoulders are still narrower than Steve’s. Not wanting to tear the jacket, Steve wraps it around himself like a shawl, tying the arms around his neck. Having at least some of his skin—and scars—covered makes him feel better, less like he’s a circus sideshow attraction and more like a person.

“Thanks,” he says to both of them.

“No problem,” says Hill. “Romanoff, you know where the other prisoner is?”

“Yeah.”

“Then lead the way.”

Natasha sets off down the corridor, with Steve close on her heels. “Can you tell me what we’re walking into here, Rogers?” she asks. “Will he go with us if you tell him to?”

“I think so. I hope so.” Steve pulls the jacket closer around himself. “They were threatening to wipe him. I don’t know whether—I think they would have made me watch, if they did, but… I’m not sure.”

“Okay.” She tugs a pistol out of its holster and shows him the magazine; it’s loaded with hypodermic darts. “Backup plan, we tranq him. We’ll wait on your signal.”

He swallows, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. “If he doesn’t remember me, it should become obvious pretty soon.”

“Good. Less waiting around.” She stops in front of a metal door, and does something to the keypad. “Ready?”

He squares his shoulders, feeling as though he’s five-foot-four again, about to take a punch from someone twice his size. “Yes.”

The keypad beeps, and the door slides back. “You’re up, Rogers.”

Taking a deep breath, he enters the cell.

Bucky is waiting for him, standing in the middle of the room with his hands spread to his sides in a _look-I’m-not-armed_ gesture. He’s dressed in his usual black, long-sleeved shirt and tac pants, but his socked feet and the way his hair is flattened on one side suggest he was sleeping. Even in the midst of his worries about Bucky’s mental state, Steve has to admit it’s kind of adorable.

“Ste—Rogers,” he says, sounding surprised. His eyes flick to Steve’s left shoulder, then to his face, and he raises his eyebrows in question. _Are you alright?_

“I’m fine, Buck. Are you okay?”

A slight frown, eyes focusing pointedly on the little camera light in the corner. _You’re giving too much away._

“It’s okay, Bucky. Just answer my question.”

Bucky’s frown deepens, but he says, “I’m fine.”

“They didn’t—do you, um, remember me?”

“Yes,” he says stiffly. He shifts his weight slightly, then gestures with his chin toward the exit, raising one eyebrow in question again. _Who are those people?_

“They’re friends of mine. Buck… listen, do you trust me?”

An incredulous look, both eyebrows now making a bid for his hairline.

“It’s okay, you can talk out loud. Do you trust me?”

A pause. Then, reluctantly, he nods.

“Do you trust me enough to do what I say? To believe I’m telling the truth?”

This time, the pause is even longer, but at last Bucky says reluctantly, “Yes. I do.”

Steve lets out a breath of relief. “Okay. Listen. The people outside the doors… they’re friends of mine, and they’ve come to get us out of here. We need to go with them, okay?”

Bucky backs away from him, shaking his head. “No, Steve, we can’t. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll punish us,” he whispers frantically, eyes darting between the doorway and the cameras on the ceiling.  “They’ll hurt you, we can’t—we can’t disobey, we have to…”

“Bucky,” Steve says gently. “There isn’t going to be any punishment. Not anymore, not if we go with them. You said you trusted me, right? I wouldn’t do this if I thought you’d get hurt for it.”

He doesn’t look reassured. “You don’t know—you don’t understand—it’s not possible, we can’t escape, it’s not—it’s a trick, or a test, or—or—”

“It’s not a trick. I told you, these people are my friends. I know them, from outside. Once we go with them, Ross can’t hurt us. I promise you.” He takes a step forward, hands spread wide. “ _Trust_ me, Bucky.”

Bucky hesitates, swallows, then raises his hand, slowly, to the shock collar around his throat. He meets Steve’s eyes, almost challenging. _They can hurt us with the touch of a button. Can your friends prevent that?_

“Natasha,” Steve says quietly, without taking his eyes off Bucky. “Can you remove these collars?”

“Yup,” she answers. “Want me to do it now?”

“Yes, please. Do me first.”

“Okay.”

He hears her approaching from behind, feels her hands on the back of his neck. There’s a click, and then a feeling of relief as the collar slides off him.

He shows Bucky the now-useless piece of metal. “Let her take yours off?”

For a long moment, Bucky hesitates, but at last he nods.

Natasha waits for Steve’s nod before warily approaching Bucky. Her caution is warranted, but unnecessary; Bucky stands absolutely still, rigid with tension as she uses a small, screwdriver-like tool to fiddle with his collar. At last, it comes off, and she steps away, holding the collar with her fingertips like it’s something distasteful, like a dead rat.

“There you go,” she says to Bucky. “No more shocks.”

A shudder runs through Bucky’s body, and his hands clench and unclench. “We can really go?” he asks softly.

“We can go,” Steve affirms. “You might want to put your shoes on, though.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Bucky’s face; then he bends down, hair swinging forward to hide his expression as he tugs on his boots.

 

Natasha leads the way down the hall, through the labyrinthine passages that still confuse Steve no matter how many times he’s traversed them. As they walk, some of the agents peel off, clearly investigating other areas of the complex.

Rounding the final corner, they come to an abrupt halt; Ross and a small group of soldiers are standing between them and the elevator. Behind them, Steve can see Thor standing in the open doorway, arms folded.

Steve’s body goes taut with fearful anticipation. Whatever Ross is doing, it can’t be good.

“Thaddeus Ross,” Hill says, stepping forward. “You’re under arrest for human trafficking, unlawful imprisonment of others against their will, forcing other people into involuntary servitude, and torture. I’m sure we’ll come up with a few more charges, but that’s enough to be getting on with for now.”

Ross doesn’t even acknowledge her. Instead, his eyes pick out Bucky, standing frozen beside Steve.

“ _Soldat_.”

The rate of Bucky’s breathing picks up, but otherwise he remains absolutely still. It’s only because they’re standing so close that Steve can sense his rapidly mounting panic.

“General Ross—” Hill begins, but again, Ross ignores her.

“ _Soldat_ ,” he repeats, and then a string of words in Russian. Steve can only pick up a few of them—“seventeen”, “nine”, and “one”. The others aren’t numbers. He suddenly remembers Natasha’s debrief on Karpov, weeks ago, her mention of _trigger words_. Is that what this is? Some kind of code meant to control the Winter Soldier?

Bucky jerks as though stung, his left hand closing on Steve’s wrist so tightly it’s painful. His mouth works, as though in some silent cry or protest, and the tendons stand out on his neck like he’s laboring under some immense strain.

Natasha, who can presumably understand what he’s saying, goes as rigid as Bucky, eyes widening in shock or recognition. She steps backward, aiming the tranq gun at Bucky’s unprotected back. Looking at Steve, she raises an eyebrow in silent question. _Shoot now?_

She’s still waiting on his signal. Gratitude rushes through him, even as his pulse rattles in his ears like a machine gun. He shakes his head, just slightly. _Wait._ Nothing has happened yet. Maybe it’s foolish, but he has to trust that whatever this is, Bucky will beat it.

“готов соблюдать,”[1] Bucky says, harsh as though the words have been ripped out of him.

“ _Good_ ,” says Ross, still in Russian. He makes a gesture encompassing Steve, Natasha, and the clustered SHIELD agents. “ _Kill them._ ”

“Bucky, don’t listen to him,” Steve says, panicked. “Don’t listen—we’re almost out, we can—”

“ _Soldier, I_ теряю терпение[2].”

“ _Kill… them?_ ” Bucky asks. His voice is thin and far away, his eyes unfocused. His grip on Steve’s wrist is still bruising.

“ _Kill them, Soldier._ _Now._ ”

“Bucky, no, don’t give in to him. Look at me, you know me, I can get you out of here!”

Bucky looks back and forth between them, a look of painful confusion wrinkling his brow. “ _Niet_ ,”[3] he whispers. “ _Niet_ , no, I don’t want to.”

“ _Kill them, Soldier_!” Ross barks. “это приказ!”[4]

Bucky falls to his knees, letting go of Steve’s wrist and clutching his head instead. “ _Niet_ ,” he pleads. “ _No, please!_ ”

“ _Kill them._ ”

“Please, I don’t want to! I don’t want to!”

“ _Soldat_!”

“I WON’T” Bucky screams.

There’s a short pause, then Ross snaps, “Sputnik!”

Bucky shudders, then sways. Steve grabs him by the shoulder at the last second, before he can fall flat on his face.

“Bucky?”

“I… won’t…” he slurs, then he shakes his head and scrambles to his feet, staring at Ross with unadulterated loathing. “I won’t,” he repeats, breathing hard. “And you can’t make me anymore, you goddamned mother-fucking sadist son of a _bitch_!”

“Aaand, we’re done here,” says Hill. “Good job, Barnes. Hendricks, Martinez, cuff Ross and frisk him. Actually, you know what, cuff the rest of these losers, too. We’re bringing them in on conspiracy.”

Some of the soldiers shift, hands going to their guns, and Steve is readying himself for a fight when a deep voice says, “You don’t want to do that.”

Everyone turns to Thor, who’d been forgotten in the prior drama. He’s still leaning against the elevator, smiling in a jovial way that is somehow scarier than a frown.

“I’m the god of thunder,” he says. “I can kill you all with one twitch of my fingers. And I am very _perturbed_ by your treatment of my friend Captain Rogers, and his shield-brother.” He takes a step forward, lightning sparking from his fingertips and an eerie white light glowing from his eyes. Even Steve can’t help feeling a frisson of fear at the sight.

“I’m very tempted to just solve this the simple way,” he tells the assembled soldiers. Electricity crackles around his head, making his hair stand on end. “So… if I were you, I wouldn’t tempt me further.” His smile drops, and his expression is cold and hard and deadly. “Drop your weapons. Now. You won’t have another chance.”

The men drop their weapons.

Hill grins, wide and feral. “Good choice. Romanoff, Sajjadi, Odinson, please escort Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes upstairs. We’ll finish cleaning up down here.”

“Roger that,” Natasha answers, radiating unholy satisfaction. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Hill.”

“Oh, you know I will.”

As Natasha herds them into the elevator, Steve glances over his shoulder. The SHIELD agents have Ross and his lackeys on the ground, patting them down none-too-gently for weapons. Though he doesn’t have much fondness for SHIELD in general, Steve can’t help but feel a swell of warmth at the sight. Whatever else happens, Hill won’t let Ross get away from this unscathed.

Thor picks up Mjolnir, which had been blocking the doors, and the elevator begins to rise. Steve grabs for Bucky’s hand and holds on tightly. After all that’s happened, he can hardly believe they’re almost free.

 

Natasha shepherds them through gleaming corridors to an even more gleaming lobby, where triple sets of doors lead to the outside. The soldiers guarding the entrance stare at them, but she ignores them.

“Okay, listen. It’s going to be very loud and very bright out there; we’ve notified the press, so there’ll be a _lot_ of people out there. Just follow me and don’t talk to anybody, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve says.

“Understood,” says Bucky.

Natasha looks them up and down with a critical expression, adjusts the jacket around Steve’s shoulders, and motions to Bucky. “Can you muss up your hair a little?”

Bucky gives her a look of flat disbelief, but runs his hand through his hair a couple times.

“Great, you both look suitably pathetic. When we get out, make a big deal of how bright the sun is, alright? Then Martinez and I will hand you our sunglasses.”

“You’re really milking this, aren’t you?” Steve says drily.

“We want the public on our side,” she answers, unrepentant. “That means making you guys look as pathetic and, um, victim-like as possible. If they feel sorry for you, it’ll make our case a lot easier.”

Steve sighs. “Okay, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Across the lobby, past the guards, who watch them with narrowed eyes but don’t stop them, and through three sets of doors. On the steps of the building, Steve is assaulted by a wall of noise and the glare of bright sunlight. He doesn’t have to fake being blinded by it, or his gratitude when Natasha hands him a pair of sunglasses.

Beside him, Bucky winces and presses closer to him, and Steve puts his right arm around his shoulders.

“You’re doing fine, guys,” Natasha murmurs. “Just follow me.”

They follow, half-stumbling, the concrete hot under Steve’s bare feet. People are crowded up against the lines of police tape, shouting questions and yelling slogans, cameras and signs waving. Men and women in SHIELD jackets hold them back, keeping a clear pathway to the black SUVs waiting for them on the curb.

When they finally reach the car, the driver’s window rolls down, revealing Clint’s familiar face. “Come on guys, get in!”

Natasha ushers Steve and Bucky into the back, then climbs in after them, while Thor takes the front passenger seat.

“We’re in,” Natasha says into her com. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“Roger that,” comes the tinny reply. “Moving.”

Clint throws the car into gear, and they start off, two identical vehicles following them.

It’s not until the building and the crowds have slid entirely out of sight that Steve slumps back with a sigh. “We made it.”

“Hell yeah, we did,” Clint says. “Hey Barnes, nice to meet you. I’m Clint.”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment. “Likewise,” he says eventually. Turning to Steve, he adds, in a barely audible whisper, “These are your friends?”

“Yeah, Buck,” says Steve. “They’re gonna keep us safe.”

“We belong to them, now?”

He feels his heart contract. “No. No, they’re our _friends_ , they’re helping us—we don’t belong to anybody, anymore. Just to ourselves.”

The confusion on Bucky’s face is painful to see. “But… if we don’t belong to them… then who will control us?”

“Nobody, Bucky. Nobody’s going to control us, not ever again. We’re free.”

“I don’t remember,” says Bucky quietly.

“What don’t you remember, Buck?”

“What it means. Being free. I don’t…” He sighs, frowning. “We knew each other. Before.”

Steve nods, waiting for him to go on.

“Were we… were we Soldiers then, too? All I remember is orders—and you.”

“We were in the Army, before we fell,” Steve admits quietly. “But they didn’t _own_ us, not the way Ross did. And before that… we had lives, Buck. We were just regular people.”

There’s a short silence. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles at last. “I’m all muddled up.”

Steve takes his hand. “That’s okay, Bucky. We’ll work it out.”

 

Washington slowly falls behind them as they head north on the Interstate-95 Expressway. Steve has never seen such a large highway, at least, not up close; Eisenhower had started his campaign of highway-building after becoming president, when Steve was already in the ice.

Even with three entire lanes going in one direction, traffic is heavy; their trio of SUVs is often forced to slow to a crawl, though Steve can’t see any reason for the slowdown. He keeps peering out of the windows, just in case—it would be easy to target them while they’re stuck like this, sitting ducks in the middle of the slow-moving traffic.

Natasha notices his anxiety. “We’ll be out of here soon,” she says. “We’re rendezvousing with Stark.”

“Where are we going?” he asks. Although he’s been blindfolded every time he was driven to it, he knows the compound is south of Washington, not north.

“Stark Tower. In New York,” she clarifies, at his questioning look. “It’s the headquarters for Stark Industries, but the top ten floors or so are Stark’s private residence.”

“Not the compound?”

“Stark Tower has one of the most advanced security systems in the world,” she says. “And unlike the compound, the Avengers are the only ones with access to it. We deemed it… safer.”

“And Fury’s okay with that?”

She smiles a shark’s smile, all teeth. “Fury is _concerned_ about being complicit in a scheme to hold two American war heroes hostage indefinitely, and against their will. SHIELD has made it their top priority to make up for their prior… error.”

“And… _was_ it an error?” he asks, almost dreading the answer.

“Generally speaking.” Natasha shrugs, deliberately careless. “It doesn’t really look good for the world’s foremost intelligence agency to make that big of an oversight.”

“We’ll bring you up to speed once we’re at the Tower,” Clint puts in, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “Better to talk about it with the whole team.”

 _We’ll discuss this when we can be sure no one’s listening_ is the unspoken message. Steve glances at the plastic interior of the vehicle, wondering if there are hidden devices recording their conversation.

As if reading his thoughts, Natasha says casually, “We borrowed the cars from SHIELD. As I said, they were eager to make amends.”

“We’re terribly grateful,” says Steve, with just a little _too_ much earnestness to be believable, and is gratified when Natasha snorts.

 

After about an hour, they leave the highway, threading their way along smaller roads bordered by trees and cornfields. They’re down to only their vehicle; one of the other SUVs had turned off before theirs, and the other continued on.

“To confuse anyone trying to follow us,” Natasha had explained.

Now, they turn down a dirt road bordered by stubbled hayfields on either side, and Steve sees a familiar silhouette perched in the middle of the field on their left: a quinjet. Clint drives off the road and straight across the field, and Steve grabs the headrest in front of him to prevent being jostled too badly.

They come to a halt only ten feet from the aircraft. Steve spots Tony immediately, flanked by three other men: one is a completely unremarkable white guy, the second a fat, broad-shouldered man, and the third a tall, handsome black man in an Air Force uniform.

“Oh good, he brought backup,” Clint says. “I was hoping he would.”

“Even if we were attacked here, I would fend off all comers,” Thor assures him. “Between us, they could never take Steven and his shield-brother.”

“Oh sure, dude, I have absolute faith in you,” says Clint easily. “But, you know, the more the merrier, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he opens the door, shouting, “Hey, Stark, I brought you some company!”

Steve glances nervously at Natasha, who nods in return.

“This is our ride.”

“Okay.” He gets out, holding the door for Bucky, who follows, silent as a ghost.

Tony strides toward them immediately. “Cap! Tin Soldier! You made it!”

“Hi, Tony.” Steve touches Bucky’s shoulder, guiding him forward. “This is Bucky. Bucky, this is Tony Stark. He’s another friend.”

Bucky eyes him warily. “Hello, Tony Stark.”

“Wow, that’s creepy. Just call me Tony, please. And this—” He breaks off as the more average of the two white men steps up.

“Captain!” He’s practically quivering with enthusiasm. “It’s such an honor to see you again. I’m Coulson, Agent Phil Coulson. You probably don’t remember me? We met when you were touring the Avengers Compound—I brought your shield?”

Bemused, Steve shakes the offered hand. “Nice to meet you, um, again, Agent Coulson.”

He gives Tony what he hopes is a _Can we get out of here now_ look, but Coulson has turned his attention to Bucky.

“And Sergeant Barnes! I must say, I never expected that I would meet even _one_ of you, let alone both! A real honor, I must say.”

Bucky stares at his hand, stares at his face, then lifts his left hand uncertainly—not copying Coulson’s gesture, but mirroring. He doesn’t say anything.

“Great, you’ve met Agent Agent,” Tony says, interposing before things can get any more awkward. “Come on, meet the others and we can get on our way.” He points to the man in Air Force uniform. “This is Rhodey. Rhodey, meet Captain America and his Bucky-boy.”

“Rhodey” clasps Steve’s hand firmly. “Colonel Jim Rhodes, Captain. I’m here as an unbiased witness, to make sure no one _else_ tries to kidnap you.” He turns to Bucky. “Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky holds out his left hand again, and Steve’s estimation of Rhodes rises several notches when he smoothly switches hands to shake properly, betraying not the slightest twitch at the sight of Bucky’s metal fingers.

“Rhodey and I go way back,” Tony tells them, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He’s got a suit, too. What’s your callsign these days, Rhodey? War-Robot?”

Rhodes grimaces. “Iron Patriot. Unfortunately.”

“ _Really?_ ” asks Steve, before he can stop himself.

“SEE?” Tony says with an air of jubilant vindication.

“I know! I _know_ , okay? It wasn’t my decision, it was a focus group. We don’t all get to pick our own names.”

“The media _literally_ came up with the Ironman moniker,” Tony points out. “And Rogers here didn’t pick _Captain America_ for his alter-ego, did you, Cap?”

“Definitely not.”

“Are you saying Captain America is _less_ stupid than Iron Patriot?”

“Aaaand last but certainly not least, meet Happy Hogan!” says Tony, changing the subject with alacrity. “My head of security.”

“Hi,” says Steve, wondering where this is going.

“Hi.” Hogan looks just as eager to get on with things as Steve. “Mr. Stark, you said we were on a schedule?”

“Yes! Yes, we are.” Tony nods briskly, rubbing his hands together. “Happy, you’re going to drive these two gentlemen back to Washington. We’re gonna take the quinjet. Everybody cool with that?”

“Yeah, of course, get them in the plane,” Rhodes says. “I’ll fly over tonight, okay? Make sure everything’s settled.”

“Perfect. See you later, Honey Bear!” With that, Tony bustles the rest of them toward the plane, with Natasha, Clint, and Thor flanking them like an honor guard.

“Sorry about the meet-and-greet,” he says, once they’re inside. “We’re trying to establish, um, accountability and that. Make sure important people see you and know where you’re going. And, obviously, make sure you don’t disappear en route.”

“I see.”

“Well, boys, strap in,” says Natasha. “It’s a short ride.”

Steve sits in his usual place, strapping his seatbelt, and after a moment of hesitation, Bucky takes the seat across from him.

“Alright, Buck?” Steve asks.

He nods, though he looks pale, shoulders hunched protectively.

The others take their seats, Tony in the cockpit. “Everybody ready for liftoff?” he calls.

Natasha glances around, noting everyone’s positions. “We’re all set, Stark.”

“Then, here we go!”

The plane takes off, and Steve sees Bucky’s posture go even more tense, teeth gritting as though in pain.

“Bucky?”

He doesn’t answer.

The jet rises higher, and Steve’s ears pop as the cabin pressurizes. Bucky begins to hyperventilate, his harsh breathing audible even over the sound of the engines.

“Are you okay?”

Still no answer. Then, with startling speed, he rips off the chest harness, scuttling toward the back of the plane. He wedges himself into the gap between the row of seats and the wall, putting his forehead to his knees and curling up as small as it is possible for him to go.

Steve hesitates, unsure whether to go to him or stay put, and Thor touches his shoulder.

“Steven.”

“What?” he snaps, torn between irritation at the distraction and hope that Thor might have useful advice.

“I believe his mind has gone elsewhere. Perhaps if you talked to him…?”

“Talk to him, right.” He undoes his seatbelt and sits down on the floor in front of Bucky, just out of reach. He doesn’t want him to feel threatened.

“Bucky?”

No answer.

“Bucky, you’re safe, it’s okay. You’re with me, with Steve. I’m your friend, remember? We grew up together. You’re my best friend. I knew your whole family…”

An idea occurs to him.  “I never knew my dad,” he says. “He died when I was a baby.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, just hugs himself and rocks, now staring at a point somewhere beyond Steve’s shoulder.

“I knew yours, though. George. He was… he was just about the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet. He was a cobbler, so he made us all—you and me and your sisters—made us baseball mitts, out of the leather scraps. Showed us how to throw properly, how to catch, how to take care of ‘em. You had to oil ‘em, see, so the leather stayed soft, supple. And he taught us how to sew.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over to him, just for an instant, but it’s enough to show he’s interested.

“I remember sitting in his shop, hemming handkerchiefs because George said you had to be able to sew cloth before you could sew leather. He was right, too. We used to help him in the shop when we got a bit older, learning how to turn a heel, use an awl…. ‘Course, during the thirties, well, there wasn’t much call for new shoes. He almost thought he’d have to close the business, a few times, but he was a smart guy. He’d repair people’s shoes—he always had, but word got ‘round he could repair a boot that was more hole than leather, and that he’d be generous about it, too. He’d let people pay him in food or clothes, or in favors—like Jamie Macpherson repairing your broken window for free, or Mrs. Olsen giving you some good beeswax candles for Shabbat. So your family did okay, even though money was tight.”

Bucky is watching him more intently now, chin on his knees.

Steve takes a deep breath, and continues. “Your mom and dad were always trying to do stuff for us, too—your mom, she’d always try and feed me up, send stuff home with me. Especially when my mom was out of work—which she was, a lot of times, during the thirties. I mean, you’d think a nurse would always have a job, but—nobody had money for the doctor, nobody had money for a nurse—they’d just—get better, or die, one way or the other, because no one had money. And your dad, he always fixed my shoes for free. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but back then—having shoes, good ones, that’d keep the water out—that was important.”

“You,” Bucky starts, and then frowns, concentrating. “You wore—newspapers—in your shoes.” He sounds vaguely accusing, like Steve’s lying about George taking care of him.

“Yeah, I did,” says Steve, trying not to let his relief show. “Because you were bigger than me, so I’d get your hand-me-downs. And your shoes were always too big for me, so… yeah. I’d stuff ‘em with newspaper. It didn’t bother me none,” he hastens to reassure. “I was grateful.”

“We fought about it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want charity,” he admits. “I didn’t understand that—that’s not what it was. It was just caring.”

With what looks like an effort, Bucky scoots forward a couple of inches, just enough so that he can touch his feet to Steve’s shins. “It feels like the ice,” he whispers. “The plane. It—I keep thinking…” He shudders.

“You’re not going back in the ice, Buck,” says Steve firmly, catching hold of his hand. “Not ever again. I’m gonna keep you safe, I promise.”

“I didn’t keep you safe. You were hurt.”

“And you took care of me, Bucky. As best you could. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I let you down.”

“No, you didn’t. You _didn’t_ , Bucky. If anything, I let _you_ down. I should have tried to get you out sooner. I should have _looked_ for you, right after you fell. I should never have believed you were dead….”

“Not your fault,” Bucky says hoarsely. “How could you know?”

“Then it’s not your fault, either.”

Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn’t try to argue any further. He closes his eyes, as though in pain, and shudders.

“Bucky?”

“Can you… keep talking? I just—I keep thinking…”

“Sure, Buck, of course. Just—let me get—Natasha, can you grab me some blankets? Thanks.” He wraps the blankets around Bucky, and starts in surprise when Natasha drapes a third over his own shoulders.

“You looked like you could use it,” she says, in response to his unspoken question.

“Thanks.” He returns his attention to Bucky. “Okay, um, I can talk about your family more, if you like…. Do you remember your sister Leah?”

“The… younger one?” Bucky asks. He closes his eyes, concentrating. “Dark… hair. Braids.”

“That’s her.” He tries not to smile too broadly at this evidence of returning memory, tries to keep his voice calm and cheerful. “Well, this one time, she decided she wanted a cat…”

He keeps on talking, telling stories of their childhood, of Bucky’s family and of their world before the war, until his throat is hoarse, and the plane lands at Stark Tower.

 

[1] Ready to comply.

[2] lose patience.

[3] No.

[4] That’s an order!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You wore newspapers in your shoes" is a quote from Captain America: Civil War. So are the trigger words (except Sputnik, I think. I don't remember where that one came from, but it's in canon somewhere!).
> 
> Thank you for all your outrage over the last chapter, guys. It prompted much evil laughter. :D


	13. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for brief descriptions of injuries, mentions of medical malpractice, and mild gaslighting (basically characters blaming themselves for stuff that wasn't their fault).

_And our spirits too burn as we bound, thine holy but mine heavy-laden,  
As we burn with the fire of our flight; ah, love, shall we win at the last?_

_\--“Hesperia”, Algernon Charles Swinburne_

 

“We need to talk,” Natasha says, once they’ve exited the plane. “But you both look dead on your feet, so it can wait until after you’ve eaten. And you’re going to need a doctor to look at you, too.”

They both stiffen, automatically pulling closer together as though readying themselves for an attack. Steve swallows hard, feeling his pulse hammering in his throat.

The look she gives them is sympathetic, but unyielding. “I know, but if you have injuries—or any other medical conditions—they need to be treated. And we have to make sure Barnes doesn’t have any implants on him.”

Bucky shivers, looking hunted. Steve puts his right arm around his shoulders. “Can’t one of you just…”

“No,” she says firmly. “You need professional attention. But I promise they won’t hurt you, and it can wait until after you’ve cleaned up and rested. Come on, you can use my floor.”

“Your floor?” Steve repeats, following her to one of the elevators.

“After the Battle of Manhattan—you’ve been briefed about that, right?”

He nods.

“After that, Stark had to rebuild the upper half of the Tower. He made residential floors for each of us, but Banner and I are the only ones who ever use them. And Fury likes having us in D.C., so we only get back here once in a while. JARVIS, my floor, please.”

“Right away, Agent Romanoff.”

Bucky jumps at the disembodied voice, looking wildly around, and Steve is vividly reminded of his own first encounter with the AI.

“It’s okay, Buck. JARVIS is a computer. He lives in the walls. Well, not lives, exactly, but…”

“Rogers, you’re _hopeless_ ,” says Natasha, ushering them onto her floor. “JARVIS is an Artificial Intelligence, designed to help Tony and run his tech,” she explains to Bucky. “If you have questions or need help with anything, you can address him by name, and he’ll do his best to help you. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers, but he peers suspiciously at the elevator anyway, as though expecting it to start moving around on its own.

“JARVIS has no video cameras on this floor,” she adds. “He only picks up audio if he’s addressed directly, and he’s virtually unhackable. No one will spy on you here.”

Steve is pretty sure Bucky doesn’t believe her; he doesn’t really, either, but he _wants_ to trust her word, which is as close as he can get right now to _actually_ trusting it.

“What happens next?” he asks.

She gives him a quick little smile, there and gone in a flash. “It’s up to you. I’ve had food delivered, if you want to eat right this minute, or you can take showers first. There’s clothes for you to change into.”

Steve considers. He’s hungry, starving, actually, but he doesn’t think he can stand to spend another moment in his current grimy, half-naked state. He needs to wash the muck of imprisonment and torture, of Ross’s _ownership_ , from his body. He wants to feel _clean._

“I think I want to take a shower first,” he says. “What about you, Bucky?”

In answer, Bucky presses his shoulder up against Steve’s; he hasn’t moved more than six inches from Steve’s side since they left the plane.

“There’s a shower in my bathroom, that’s the first door on the left,” Natasha tells them. “And one at the end of the hall. Mine’s nicer, so you guys can fight over it. Towels and everything should already be in there, but you can yell if you need anything.”

“Buck? Which one do you want?”

Bucky darts a glance at Natasha, who politely looks away, then back at Steve. His hand tightens possessively around Steve’s arm. _Not without you._

“Okay, pal,” Steve says. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

Bucky maintains his grip, making a point, and gently tows him toward Natasha’s room.

The bathroom is _huge_. It’s easily the size of Steve’s bedroom at the compound, with a bathtub/shower stall big enough to fit at least three Thors lying full length. The bath has three shower heads, with a dizzying array of dials and knobs to go with them, as well as other buttons along the side of the tub. The floor is covered in plush bath mats, and potted ferns lurk in the corners. The towel rack, when Steve touches it, turns out to be heated.

“She wasn’t kidding,” he says, when he finally finds his voice. “You could fit the whole _team_ in here.”

Bucky, predictably, doesn’t say anything, but he does turn the lock behind them, shoulders easing slightly when it clicks.

Exhaustion abruptly hits Steve like a wave, and he sways on his feet, reaching out to steady himself against the wall. A sturdy shoulder presents itself instead: Bucky, coming to the rescue as usual.

“Hey, JARVIS,” says Steve. “Think you can figure out the shower for me?”

“Of course, sir.” The voice makes both of them jump, even though Steve, at least, was expecting it. “What would you like?”

“Something gentle. And warm. Really, really warm.”

“Ah. The rain feature, perhaps?” Water begins to pour from the ceiling above the bath in a gentle cascade, steam rising already. It is, indeed, like rain, and when Steve puts his hand under it, it’s the perfect temperature.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s great. Thanks. Um. Can you stop listening, now? Until we ask, I mean.”

“Of course, sir.”

Silence, except for the steady drum of the water, and Steve can’t stand to be in his prison clothes any longer, and is too tired to care what Bucky does or doesn’t see, or how he does or doesn’t feel. He shucks off his pants and underwear, tossing them into the trash with vindictive pleasure, and drops the jacket from his shoulders.

Too tired to stand anymore, he steps into the shower and sinks to the floor, leaning against the side of the bathtub with a sigh.

He doesn’t hear Bucky get in over the sound of the water; he just opens his eyes and sees Bucky crouching next to him, holding a bar of soap and a washcloth. Water streams in rivulets down his face, gathering on his eyelashes and making his pale skin glisten. Steve spends a long moment staring at the wet shine of his lips before catching himself and hastily looking away.

“Buck?” he mumbles.

“Do you need me to wash you?” It sounds almost like a threat, but there’s a touch of amusement hovering at the corners of his mouth.

Steve closes his eyes again. “No, I can do it. Just give me a minute.”

“Steve.” He’s still holding out the soap, implacable. “Do you need me to do it for you.”

Steve groans. “You’re the _worst_. Fine, give it here.”

The soap has a spicy, woody smell, something he can’t quite put a name to. “We’re gonna smell like Natasha.”

“Is that. Bad?”

“No, just… a fact. I don’t know.”

He gingerly pats the cloth over the scabbed-over bullet wounds; they’re mostly healed, but still tender to the touch. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky plying his own washcloth; they trade the soap back and forth, while dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain in a way that would probably feel like a metaphor if Steve wasn’t so damned tired.

“Is there shampoo?” Steve asks, when he’s as clean as he’s going to be.

“Shampoo?”

“For hair. Um. It comes in a bottle…?”

Bucky rummages through a set of shelves built into the wall of the shower, and returns with a wire basket full of various haircare products. Steve picks one at random and squints at it.

“‘Chocolate and Macadamia’? Seriously?”

“What’s a macadamia?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmm.” He holds out his hand, and Steve squirts a little into his palm. Bucky gives it a cautious sniff. “Hmm,” he repeats, this time in a much more approving tone.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” He offers his hand for Steve’s inspection.

“Oh! That does smell good. I take back everything I said.”

Bucky gives the other bottles a speculative look, and Steve smiles.

“Okay, let’s see what else she’s got.”

In the end, they sample a little bit of everything—Chocolate and Macadamia, Sandalwood, Coconut-Lemongrass, Rejuvenating Rosemary-Lavender-Tea-tree (All Natural!), and Rose. Not all of it goes in their hair—Steve is pretty sure lemongrass and rose, for example, would make a weird combination—but it’s nice to just lose themselves in Natasha’s indulgent selection of body products, and pretend that this is normal for a little while.

Bucky washes Steve’s hair, because he still can’t raise his left arm above shoulder-height without pain, and he tries not to fixate too much on the feeling of Bucky’s fingers on his scalp, or the warm nearness of him. The shower now smells of flowers and sandalwood, the water running clean and iridescent with bubbles across the smooth white floor of the tub. Even with the tiny anxious voice in his head telling him to be careful when it comes to Bucky, to not give too much away, it’s the best he’s felt in a long time.

He must doze off at some point, because he wakes up on the bathroom floor, covered in towels, with his head on Bucky’s stomach, and Bucky’s arm resting on his chest. He’s curiously comfortable and warm—the room is still filled with steam, and the bath mats they’re lying on are so thick they might as well be a mattress. For a moment, he contemplates just going back to sleep, but then his ears catch up to his brain, and he realizes there’s someone knocking on the door.

“Steve?” calls Natasha’s voice. “Are you okay? Tell me Barnes hasn’t drowned you in there.”

“’m fine, Natasha. I just… fell asleep.”

“In the _bath_?”

“I guess?” he offers, sitting up properly. Bucky makes a small noise of protest, but sits up too. He’s wearing a towel around his waist (thank God), but his chest is bare. He looks like one of Michelangelo’s daydreams, if Michelangelo had sculpted David with scars and a metal arm and the look of someone who’s so used to pain that its absence is almost frightening. Steve realizes he’s staring, and also that he hasn’t finished answering Natasha.

“We’ll be out in a second…. Did you bring us clothes?”

“They’re outside the door. Come out whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”

“Okay.” Turning to Bucky, he asks, “How long was I out?”

“Half an hour? I think?” He avoids Steve’s eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks. “I fell asleep, too.”

“Well, we probably both needed it.” Steve stretches, wincing at the twinge in his arm. “Ugh, I got the bandage wet.”

“I can fix it.” After a moment of hesitation, he tilts his head to look at the ceiling. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?”

They both flinch.

“I need bandages. And burn ointment.”

“In the top left drawer of the vanity, sir.”

“Thanks.” A pause. “Um… please turn off?”

JARVIS’s voice somehow manages to sound amused. “Very good, sir.”

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to rebandage Steve’s arm. When they exit the bathroom, they find the clothes spread out on Natasha’s bed—thick sweatpants, t-shirts, flannels, and hoodies, along with Iron Man- and Hulk-themed slippers.

Steve knows the slippers are probably meant to be funny, but the fact that she thought to give them something to wear on their feet, when he’s been barefoot since he returned from the mission, fills him with gratitude. With every layer of clothing he puts on, he feels less vulnerable, the clothes an armor with which he can face the world.

When they finally venture back outside, they find the other Avengers, including Bruce, gathered around Natasha’s dining room table, eating and talking in low voices. There’s a chorus of greetings as Steve and Bucky enter the room.

“Cap!” Tony calls. “Come sit down! You too, Buckaroo. We got subs from the deli. Come and eat, there’s plenty!”

The smells of warm bread, cheese, and roasted vegetables hit Steve’s nose, making his stomach growl. He takes the empty seat next to Bruce, gesturing to Bucky to sit next to him. Though Bucky’s expression gives nothing away, Steve can practically feel the tension radiating off him as he takes the offered chair. Being in a strange environment, surrounded by unknowns, is clearly hard on him; the only thing Steve can think of to do is continue to emphasize that they’re safe, that they’re among friends. Perhaps if _he_ is calm enough, Bucky will begin to relax too.

With this in mind, he says cheerfully, “Bucky, you haven’t met Bruce yet. He’s another friend. Bruce, Bucky.”

The two nod at each other, Bruce warily friendly, Bucky just wary. Steve bumps Bucky’s shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner, and passes him a platter. “Here, try the eggplant sub. It’s good.”

 

“Okay,” says Tony when everyone’s finished eating. “You guys up for a debrief?”

Steve glances at Bucky, who raises his chin and squares his shoulders in an _It-won’t-be-fun-but-I-can-do-it_ gesture.

“Sure.”

“Alright, let’s adjourn to more comfortable seating, shall we?” He gets up as he talks, heading for the sectional sofa and armchairs set up in what appears to be the “living room” area of the open-plan apartment.

Steve follows, taking the opportunity to look around now that he’s not occupied with other things. There’s very little furniture—the sofa and armchairs are the only seating aside from the chairs at the table—but the space doesn’t feel spartan; the floor is covered by thick rugs in rich plums and scarlets, and the built-in shelves lining the walls bear all kinds of interesting art pieces and knickknacks, along with books of all sizes. Potted plants are clustered around the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at the far end of the room, a set of gorgeous rainbow-colored drapes hang from the ceiling, draped neatly over a hook to keep them out of the way.

Natasha notices him looking. “Those are aerial silks.”

“What?”

“Aerial silks. They’re for doing acrobatics.”

“Like in the circus.”

She smiles in a way that makes Steve think he’s stumbled upon some hidden joke. “Exactly.”

“Guys, come on!” calls Tony. “Let’s not take a million years, here.”

Clint, Bruce, and Thor are already settled on the couch, and although there’s room, Steve knows Bucky won’t be comfortable crowding in with the rest of them. Instead, he sits on the rug in front of one of the armchairs, inviting Bucky to sit behind him with a tilt of his head. There’s only the slightest hesitation before Bucky does so, stretching his legs out on either side of Steve so he can lean comfortably against the chair.

When Steve looks back at the others, he finds Tony and Clint wearing nearly identical expressions of surprise, Bruce thoughtful, and Natasha smirking slightly. He’s not sure whether it’s the fact that he’s sitting on the floor, or that he’s putting his back to Bucky, or something else that’s gotten their attention.

Thor, at least, seems unfazed. “Steve,” he says, leaning forward. “I didn’t like to ask before, but… your arm. You were injured…?”

Behind him, Steve feels Bucky flinch. He wraps a hand around Bucky’s ankle, hoping to comfort him. “It’s a burn. Ross, uh… I screwed up on a mission, and then Bucky went against orders to help me out, so Ross, um… he had my arm burned.”

“It was me,” says Bucky unexpectedly.

“What?”

“I did it.”

Turning his head, Steve can see that Bucky is hunched in on himself, his expression one of deep shame.

“I burned him.”

“Buck, Ross _made_ you do it,” Steve says. “That’s not on you.”

“But I, I didn’t… I should have…”

“If you hadn’t, he would have hurt me _worse_. We were afraid he’d use the Chair, remember?” Steve grabs for Bucky’s hand, squeezing it. “It’s okay, Buck. You don’t need to beat yourself up for this.”

“Ross made him burn you?” Tony asks sharply. “What did he do?”

“He threatened to hurt me worse if Bucky didn’t comply,” Steve answers. “We had no way of getting out right then, so we just—got through it. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault.”

“Okay, yeah, I get that, but if things were that dire, why didn’t you press the button for us to come get you _immediately_?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Because we agreed it was better to go the legal route?”

“Yeah, but if we’d known it was an _emergency_ —”

“Neither of us were dying, and you got there before anything else could happen,” Steve says, exasperated. “I’m fine, everything’s fine, you got us out.”

“With a burn bad enough that _you_ haven’t healed from it yet, and two GSWs!”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Steve repeats stubbornly. “Can we please just get to the bit where you tell me what’s going on with SHIELD and what happens next?” He pauses as a thought strikes him. “Actually, first tell me how long they had me this time. I don’t even know what day it is.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Tony mutters, but Clint speaks over him.

“It’s October 18th, so six days since we saw you last. And I gotta say, Cap, I have to side with Tony on this one. You should have called us earlier. Like, when you got shot, earlier. Or, hell, even when Ross sent you on a mission.”

“It wasn’t an emergency,” Steve repeats stubbornly. “And I _did_ call you. Twice.”

“And we went as soon as we got the warrant,” says Natasha. “But Steve, if we’d known how bad it was, we could have done _something_ to stop him. Power outage, equipment failure, Ross’s nudes leaked online…”

“His _what_?”

She shrugs. “Photo manipulation software exists, it’s as good a distraction as any. My point is, we promised to help you. You didn’t have to wait until you were seriously injured to call for us. If something even worse had happened… if we hadn’t been there in time… that would have been on _us_ , do you understand?”

And finally, he does. Guilt is a language he speaks fluently. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think of that—of how it would affect the rest of you.” He pauses. “I didn’t realize it _would_ affect the rest of you.”

“We’re your friends, Steve,” says Bruce, equally soft. “I know it’s hard to trust, but we are.”

Steve nods, shamefaced. “I know. Or at least, I’m trying to. Thank you.”

“Okay.” Tony has been fidgeting for the past five minutes. “Can we finish with the touch-feely stuff?”

“You started it,” Steve reminds him, and is delighted when he immediately puffs up with mock indignation.

“How—how—I can’t believe—the _disrespect_! _No_ manners—I am _biologically_ your _elder_ —”

Bucky nudges Steve in the back. “Are they always like this?” he whispers.

“Maybe,” murmurs Steve as Tony continues to sputter. “They didn’t act like this around me before, but… I think this is their way of including us.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“If you’re going to play the age card, you better be prepared for all those grandpa jokes you were using on Cap,” Clint warns.

“Forty-three isn’t _old_. Anyway, what about Thor? He’s like, a thousand years old.”

“One thousand forty-eight,” Thor corrects.

“He has a youthful energy.”

“ _I_ have youthful energy!”

“Guys,” Natasha interrupts. “Debrief first, argue later.”

Steve nods. “First things first, I want to know what connection SHIELD had with Ross. Did Fury know what we—what was happening?”

“Did he know Ross was torturing you? No,” answers Natasha. “I believe he was aware that Ross was using some method of coercion, but he told us that he thought it was more along the lines of pressuring you into continued service.”

“The line about the serum being Army property—Fury said something similar,” Clint puts in. “Not about _you_ being property, Cap, but… oh, that you owed them for making you into who you are.”

“Specifically, you owe the _SSR_ ,” says Tony. “I think he hoped you’d switch loyalties to SHIELD, as the SSR’s successor.”

“And if I don’t?”

Tony shrugs. “Then Fury will be disappointed. He’s not above being a manipulative bastard when he wants to be, but he’s not going to force you.” He smiles, sharp as a hidden knife. “And anyway, anyone who wants to control you—either of you— has to get through us.”

“SHIELD was very much onboard to rescue you,” continues Natasha. “There’s no love lost between them and the Army, and you’re _kind of_ a big hero around there. Our only hang-up was making sure we had jurisdiction to make the search—which was why we were delayed after your first alarm.”

“Fury acted with admirable haste,” Thor says. “He found an honorable judge who speedily gave us the writ we needed. After that, nothing could hold us back.”

“You… implied… that it wasn’t safe for us to stay at the Compound,” Steve reminds them.

Clint grimaces. “We said Fury isn’t gonna hold you against your will. Well, we can’t exactly say the same for Barnes.”

Steve tenses, pressing back against Bucky’s legs as though his closeness can ensure Bucky’s safety. “Explain.”

“Woah, woah, woah, calm down, Elsa!” Tony raises his hands placatingly. “Nobody’s taking Barnes anywhere without his say-so, okay?”

“Fury suggested he should be contained for an observation period,” Bruce says darkly. “For safety reasons, of course.”

“You have to admit, it makes sense from his point of view,” Natasha points out. “Barnes is an unknown quantity. At the time, we had no evidence he wasn’t a murderous puppet. No offense,” she adds to Bucky, who shrugs.

“Obviously, we told him that wasn’t gonna fly,” says Tony. “But you can see why we were leery of using SHIELD resources any more than we had to.”

“I see.”

“Also, there’s a _slight_ chance the Army could make an incredibly ill-advised bid to get you back.”

“I see.”

“Which is also why Bruce is here.”

“Because wanting to see you had nothing to do with it,” Bruce says with mild sarcasm.

“I mean, that too, duh, but we also don’t want anyone messing with you while we’re preoccupied.” Tony drapes an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, Brucey-boy, we got your back.”

Bruce shoots him an exasperated look that doesn’t quite hide his amusement. “Whatever you say, Tony.”

“So what’s the plan now?” asks Steve. “Do we just hide out here until further notice?”

“Well… I had an idea about that, actually,” Tony says slowly, studiously avoiding Steve’s gaze. “So, you guys are gonna need to have some kind of security until the legal stuff is all figured out, which, obviously that might take a while, and as we established, SHIELD is a no-go, and this Tower is super secure and clearly the best anywhere but it doesn’t really have a lot of outdoor access, and I thought you guys would probably be tired of being cooped up, but it seemed like Barnes didn’t really like the plane coming here, so it might not even work, and actually I don’t know how you feel about heat either, but you said you didn’t like the cold, and—”

“Tony,” Steve interrupts. “What’s your _point_?”

“I thought you might want to go to Malibu,” he says in a rush.

Steve stares at him blankly. “Malibu?”

“In California? You know, sunshine, ocean, bikinis…”

“Yes, Tony, I know where Malibu is,” says Steve, holding onto his patience by a thread. “What I don’t know is why you’re suggesting we go there.”

“Tony has a house there,” Natasha says, before Tony can complicate things any further. “It has excellent security, it’s right on the beach, and you could be outside as much as you like. Clint and Thor volunteered to go with you while the rest of us sort things out from here, and it’s another way to confuse anyone who might be looking for you.”

“ _And_ there’s a pool,” adds Clint. “And a jacuzzi. And a bar, which I am totally not gonna misuse—ow! _Nat_ …”

Steve looks at Tony, who is still taking great interest in the air somewhere to the left of Steve’s head. “You’d let us stay at your house?”

“I mean, sure, least I can do, _mi casa es su casa_ , just don’t break anything, although actually if you knock over that horrible Kapoor sculpture you’ll be doing us all a favor, I only got it ‘cause Pepper hated it, but joke’s on me ‘cause I hate it too and now I have to see it _every time I walk into the living room_ , ugh, and, uh… anyway, yeah, go for it.”

There are a lot of things Steve could say, but they’d probably just embarrass both of them. “Thanks, Tony,” he says instead. “It means a lot.”

Tony waves a hand, carefully casual. “Don’t mention it. It’s not like I’m using it right now.”

“Is it safe?” asks Bucky.

All Tony’s elaborate carelessness evaporates at the question; he straightens and looks directly at Bucky, expression turning serious. “It is as safe as the safest floor in this Tower,” he says. “Which is to say that it’s one of the safest places in the world. I’ll take you through the security system before you leave. If you want to go, that is.”

Steve tilts his head back to look at Bucky, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.

“Okay. We’ll take it.”

“Great,” says Natasha. “That’s settled. We want to wait ‘til dark to ship you off, so there’ll be plenty of time for that medical exam I know you guys are looking forward to.”

Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand again on reflex. “Natasha…” he says pleadingly.

She meets his eyes, and there’s no quarter there. Her voice carries the firm-but-kind tone he remembers Winifred Barnes using frequently when insisting on something unpleasant but necessary, like nettle tea. “No, Steve. I get why you don’t want to, but this is important.”

He swallows, then reluctantly nods. “Okay.”

“One of us can accompany you, if you like,” suggests Thor. “To ensure nothing untoward happens.”

Steve hesitates, then glances at Natasha, hoping his request is clear in his eyes. Out of all of them, Bruce is the person he trusts the most, but he knows better than to ask him to enter a situation as stressful as this one is likely to be. Natasha is a close second—but almost to his own surprise, he believes down to his bones that she will keep him and Bucky safe.

Natasha returns his look with a surprised look, and a faint gesture, hand to chest, that clearly means _me? Really_?

“You don’t have to,” he says aloud, but her surprise has already turned to warmth, a small smile hovering around her lips.

“Of course, Steve,” she says. “As long as Barnes is okay with it.”

Behind him, Bucky clears his throat. “Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name,” he says, a palpable strain in his voice, “is Bucky.”

Steve doesn’t bother to keep the grin from spreading across his face, tipping his head back to look Bucky in the face.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle slightly, and he squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll do this exam,” he adds. “If she’ll be there to make sure.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Natasha promises.

He meets her gaze, an expression on his face that Steve can’t quite parse. “I know.”

 

The exam room is very clearly designed for people who aren’t comfortable in medical settings. The walls are painted a soft sea-green, there are tall potted plants in the corners, and the pictures on the walls are colorful pop-art prints, which grab Steve’s attention immediately. A large, lace-curtained window lets in the afternoon sunlight, and another planter spills a profusion of purple, red, and pink petunias on the windowsill. Even the smell is different: instead of disinfectant, the room smells faintly of lavender, so that the overall impression is of walking into the parlor of an elderly lady with an eclectic taste in art.

The doctor, too, seems to have gotten the memo to appear as nonthreatening as possible: a bespectacled, dark-skinned man in his sixties, he wears a maroon sweater-vest and a bright smile, and seems completely unconcerned by Bucky and Natasha lurking menacingly in the corner.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Harun Madani, but you can call me Harun if you like,” he says, shaking Steve’s hand. “Personal physician to the Avengers, when they need it—and when they’re in New York, which I admit, isn’t very often these days.”

Steve takes the offered hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Steve,” says Dr. Madani. “And of course, I know the charming Agent Romanoff.” There’s a question implied in his glance at Bucky, which Natasha answers.

“This is James Barnes, Dr. Madani. He’s here for a checkup, too.”

Madani gives her a stern look over his glasses. “And is that his decision, Agent Romanoff?”

She doesn’t reply, just leans back against the wall, waiting. Neither Steve nor Bucky says anything.

“Hmm.” Madani turns that penetrating gaze on Bucky, who shrinks back a little. “Agent Romanoff, could you give us the room, for a moment?”

“Don’t.” It’s Bucky’s voice, unexpected, and Steve and Natasha both turn to him in surprise. He grabs her wrist, though Steve can see it’s a loose hold, easy to break out of. “Don’t leave us.”

For a moment, she just stares at him in obvious surprise, then relaxes. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Bucky,” she promises. “You or Steve. The doctor there wants to make sure I’m not coercing you, but if you want me to stay, I’ll stay. Both of you,” she adds, glancing at Steve, and he nods in gratitude.

“She’s here to make sure no one gets hurt,” he explains to the doctor, flushing a little. “Me and Bucky… we, uh, we haven’t had very good experiences with doctors, for a while.”

Madani sighs. “Yes, I saw the news. What happened to you…” He shakes his head. “A travesty. And because of that, I need to know that you’re agreeing to this exam of your own free will.”

“It’s… complicated.” Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, self-conscious. “I don’t think either of us really _want_ to, but… it’s…”

“Necessary,” Bucky completes. He’s still holding Natasha’s wrist. “He—” gesturing to Steve—“is injured, and—we don’t know, we don’t know if everything they did to us…”

“If there’ll be any lasting effects,” Steve finishes.

“And all of you want to stay in the room for both examinations?” asks Madani.

“Yes,” Bucky says firmly. Steve nods in agreement.

“Very well, then. Steve, we’ll start by getting your weight and temperature.”

It goes better than Steve expected; Dr. Madani’s cheerful manner and gentle hands go a long way towards keeping both of them calm, and he narrates everything he’s doing, from taking blood pressure to checking for signs of infection.

When he uncovers Steve’s arm, he goes quite still, clenching his jaw. After a long moment, he says in a quiet, tense voice, “I’m going to remove the dead skin from this so it doesn’t go necrotic. Then I’ll treat it with an antibiotic ointment and burn cream, and cover it. I’ll prescribe you an oral antibiotic, which you’ll need to take twice a day. I also want you to put more ointment on the burn twice a day, or have someone else do it for you. Can you do that?”

Steve nods.

“Good. I would also suggest calling Dr. Helen Cho. She has pioneered groundbreaking treatments to restore damaged skin and regrow tissue. I believe the Avengers have worked with her before?”

“Yes, we have,” Natasha confirms.

“She ought to be able to help you, more than I can. In the meantime, it’s of the utmost importance to keep the burn clean and humid.”

“I understand,” says Steve, and Madani nods, satisfied.

“Do you want me to photograph the damage before I treat it? It could provide important evidence when—if all of this goes to trial.”

Steve hesitates. He hates the idea of anyone else seeing this mark of Ross’s ownership, of his own helplessness and weakness, on him. But if they want to make Ross pay for what he’s put them through, they’ll need all the help they can get.

“Yeah,” he finally says hoarsely. “Do it.”

“This will be completely confidential. The only way anyone will see the photographs—or my notes of this visit—is if you decide to release them.”

“Yeah,” repeats Steve, turning his head away. “Just—get it over with. Please.”

To his relief, Madani says nothing more on the subject, taking the picture and treating the burn with no comments other than soft-spoken explanations of what he’s doing, and warnings before he does anything that might be uncomfortable.

By the time it’s his turn, Bucky seems to have relaxed slightly, evidently reassured by the doctor’s care of Steve. Madani tuts over evidence of old broken bones, asks about muscle soreness and back aches from the metal arm, recommends chiropractic and massage treatments, and gives him a cream meant to ease the apparently constant irritation where the metal meets Bucky’s flesh.

“Prosthetics aren’t my specialty, but I happen to know someone who might be able to design you something lighter and more compatible with your body.”

“Tony?” Steve guesses, only a little surprised. Tony’s never mentioned prosthetics, but he probably has a number of projects Steve doesn’t know about.

Madani smiles. “No. This person… let’s just say they are not someone who usually takes requests from people they don’t know. However, I have an in, and if you wish, I can make some inquiries. Only if you want—but I think it would help to prevent a great deal of pain down the road. And of course, the confidentiality I discussed with you still applies.”

Bucky has that look again, like any scrap of kindness is so unexpected that it almost hurts him to receive it. “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Okay, you—you can make inquiries. If you want.”

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, you should let Tony check out your arm, in case it’s booby-trapped—the rest of your body looks clear, and you don’t have any unhealed injuries that I can see. I’ll get both of your X-rays worked up in the next couple of days, and forward you the results. That’s not my forte, of course, but the orthopedist I work with is very good, and has worked with Mr. Stark and Agent Romanoff in the past. You can depend on her discretion.”

They both nod agreement.

“I’ll give you both forms to fill out, detailing who I’m authorized to share your medical information with, and for what purpose. That goes for my contact in prosthetics, too. I won’t take any action until you’ve given me written permission. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, and Bucky echoes, “Yes.”

“Good.” For the first time, Madani looks hesitant, twisting his hands together. “I’ve, erm, treated a number of abuse victims during my years of practice, and I know that it leaves more wounds than the physical. I—I hope you will seek psychological help, if you need it. I’m sure Agent Romanoff can find you the appropriate people to talk to.”

Natasha nods, expression serious. “Of course.”

“And, of course, I’d be happy to offer any testimony you require regarding the abuse you’ve suffered. And if there’s any help or advice I can give you, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, a little dazed.

Madani clasps his hand, then Bucky’s. “Take care, both of you. And let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help!”

“Thanks, Doc,” says Natasha. “I’ll make sure they have your number.” With that, she bustles them out of the room.

“Well,” she says, once outside, “I hope you aren’t too traumatized from that. We’ll get Stark to look at your arm, Bar—Bucky, before you leave, but I’m guessing you’d prefer a break first.”

Bucky nods, hesitant, like he doesn’t expect his opinion to matter.

“Okay. So we’ll head back to my floor, and you can nap or watch TV or whatever else you want to do, and we’ll deal with the rest after dinner. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, glancing at Bucky to ascertain his agreement. “Thanks.”

Natasha smiles, far more warmly than he’s used to. Some bond has been forged between the three of them over the course of this ordeal, a measure of trust Steve would have thought impossible even a day ago. “No problem.”

 

Bucky does end up taking a nap, passing out with surprising speed in Natasha’s guest room, but Steve finds himself unable to sleep, still tense and buzzing from the rigors of the day. After staring at the ceiling for half an hour, he admits defeat and goes back out to the living area, where the drone of the TV catches his ears—Natasha is watching the news.

Without turning, she pats the couch next to her, and Steve has taken the offered seat before he realizes the reporter is talking about him. Well, him and Bucky.

“In an _unprecedented_ action, SHIELD agents raided the U.S. military headquarters at the Pentagon this morning, looking for two men the Army was alleged to be illegally holding prisoner under the orders of General Thaddeus Ross of the U.S. Army,” says the blonde woman onscreen, her serious expression at odds with the jaunty tone of her voice. “Those two men? Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the famous WWII special ops team the Howling Commandoes, and Captain Steven Grant Rogers, otherwise known as _Captain America_.”

A picture of the two of them pops up on the screen—black and white, both grinning at some long-forgotten joke, arms around each other. They both look so _young_ , Steve thinks, and swallows. The photograph couldn’t have been taken more than a year before he crashed the _Valkyrie_.

“While we have yet to learn the full details of the story, it appears that both men were preserved through cryostasis—that is, being frozen—until recently. According to SHIELD’s initial report, the two heroes were kept in appalling conditions, and frequently tortured.”

She plays video footage of Steve and Bucky emerging from the Pentagon, zooming in as they flinch from the sun and stumble after the SHIELD agents.

Steve stares at the image uneasily; it’s bizarre to see himself from the outside, hunched and haunted, clutching someone else’s jacket to himself like a security blanket. In the video, Bucky is unnaturally pale, a long-haired ghost tucked against Steve’s side.

“The story has prompted outrage around the world, with many calling for the resignation of major governmental officials, including the Secretary of State and even the president. A spokesperson for President Ellis stated that the president was not aware of Captain America and Sergeant Barnes’s survival or incarceration, and pleaded for calm while the situation is resolved. SHIELD has released a statement accusing General Thaddeus Ross and fifteen of his subordinates of gross human rights violations, and has declared the organization’s intent to press charges. The accused are currently in police custody, with no bail posted.”

She switches to different footage, this time of a crowd of people outside the Pentagon, waving signs and flags. “Protests have taken place all over the country since the news broke.”

“The whole country’s up in arms,” Natasha says, eyes fixed on him. “You’ve got a lot of people on your side, Cap.”

“Don’t.” He gets up, striding over to the windows. The view over the city is nearly alien, not least because he’s not used to looking at it from Manhattan. “Can you just… turn it off. Please.”

She does, following him to the window. “What’s wrong?”

“They all know,” he says hoarsely. “The whole world is going to know what they did to us, what I _let_ them do. You heard her, they’re all protesting ‘cause they think _Captain America_ was imprisoned. But when they hear… when they know what they turned me into… what I’ve done…”

Her voice is calm, neutral. “And what is it that you think you were turned into?”

“A coward.” He closes his eyes, ashamed. “I stopped fighting. I stopped trying. I let them hurt him, and I didn’t even try….”

“Steve.” Her hand hovers, then smooths over his cheek, turning him to face her. Her touch doesn’t frighten him the way he expects it to, the way it has in the past; it feels like comfort. Her green eyes are intent, honest and pained.

“Everybody has a breaking point,” she says gently. “Everyone. Me, Bucky… you. You broke. Not your fault. But now? Now it’s time to pick up the pieces, figure out who you’re going to be from now on. You’re never going back to the person you were before… but that doesn’t mean you can’t mold yourself into something new. I have, and so has Tony, and Clint, and—God, Bruce, don’t you think Bruce knows what it’s like to rebuild yourself from the ground up? All of us have been there, Steve. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He slumps, feeling the tears well in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Don’t thank me. _Believe_ me.” Her other hand comes up to cup his face, her eyes boring into his. “You don’t have to go through this alone.”

He wraps his fingers around her wrists, accepting the offered comfort. “I believe you’re telling the truth. As for the rest… I’ll work on it, Nat. Promise.”

“You called me Nat.”

“Oh—sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.” She smiles. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Steve, but we’re friends now. Nicknames are allowed.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t bother to hide his answering smile, squeezing her hands before letting her go. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes dance mischievously. “So, _as_ your friend, can I ask you a nosy friend question?”

He groans. “I’m regretting this already. What?”

“You and Bucky. Are you… hmm, shall we say, _more than friends_?”

He hesitates, not because he’s reluctant to tell her—in fact, he finds to his surprise that he _wants_ to tell her, to say out loud what he’s been mulling over practically since he came out of the ice—but because he wants to make sure he explains it correctly. “I’m going to quibble,” he says, still smiling, “with the phrase ‘more than friends’. I think—the friendships I’ve had—the friendship I’ve had with _Bucky—_ couldn’t possibly be less than any romantic relationship, which is what I think you mean. I don’t think I could love him _more_ , regardless of—of what _kind_ of love it was, does that make sense?”

“It does.” The side of her mouth quirks upward. “How very… emotionally aware of you.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “I’ve loved him a long time. I’m used to it.”

“But it’s a—sorry, a friend thing?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Her interest sharpens perceptibly, eyes narrowing with laser-like focus. “Go on.”

It is suddenly difficult to face her, to watch her expression change in response to his words; he turns to the window instead, looking outward rather than meeting that too-perceptive gaze. “We’ve never been… _other_ than friends,” he says slowly “But I think… if he wanted….”

“You’re in love with him.”

“I am.” It’s strangely easy to say, after all; far easier than he had thought it would be, the few times he’d imagined having this conversation with someone. Perhaps because they’ve already spoken of much darker things; perhaps because loving Bucky is the one thing he could never regret, or be ashamed of. “I think I love him in just about every way it’s possible to love another person.”

Uncharacteristically, she hesitates. “And… does he…?”

“I don’t know.” He casts a sideways glance at her. “You probably won’t believe me, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s trusted me this far, and I think—that’s enough. Even if that’s all, it’s enough.” His voice breaks without his meaning it to. “I never thought I’d see him again.”

Natasha looks almost pitying. “Oh, Steve. You’re a good person, you know that?”

“I am?”

“You are.” She steps back, breaking the moment. “Thanks for indulging my curiosity.”

“We’re friends,” he says, with what he hopes is sufficient lightness. _You’re a good person_ is still ricocheting around his head like a rogue firework. “I hear this is the kind of thing we do.”

 

It’s two in the morning by the time Steve, Bucky, and Clint finally board the quinjet. Thor has elected to fly there ahead of them, “to prepare your arrival”. Steve suspects he’s just tired of mortal means of transport.

They’ve tried to make the plane as non-triggering to Bucky as possible; Natasha donated a plush rug and a veritable mountain of pillows and blankets, Tony messed with the settings so the interior would have adequate heat and softer lighting, Clint put together a library of 40s-era music for them to listen to, and Bruce and Thor stocked a hamper with thermoses of tea and cocoa, and far more food than even they are likely to eat. It’s fairly easy to tell who packed what; Steve suspects the more practical sandwiches and herbal tea were Bruce’s contribution, whereas Thor packed a whole collection of pastries and cakes, and, for some reason, two boxes of pop-tarts.

Ten minutes in, the care of their teammates seems to be working; Bucky is still slightly tense, but his breathing is still measured, and the first taste of cocoa makes his eyes widen with pleasure. “Tell me about the others,” he says, when he’s on his second cup. “How did you—how did you make them your friends?”

It’s an odd way to phrase it, but Steve thinks he understands where he’s coming from; if it had been hard for _him_ to accept that the other really cared about him, how much harder must it be for Bucky?

“I didn’t really do anything,” he says. “It just happened. Well, I suppose maybe it started with Bruce—I’d go hang out in his lab when I couldn’t sleep, and help with his chemistry experiments. He’s actually mostly a physicist, I guess, but chemistry’s sort of his hobby…”

He talks on, describing his gradual friendship with Bruce, the misunderstandings that had occurred between him and the others, the way they had all rallied round him when they learned the truth of his situation. Bucky pays close attention through it all, sipping his cocoa and nibbling a jam doughnut. The talking seems to help, just as it did earlier; he’s not exactly _relaxed_ , but he’s not panicking, either.

"Tony looks familiar," he says eventually. “We… I didn't know him before, did I?"

"We knew his dad," replies Steve. "Howard. They look… not exactly alike, but definitely a bit similar. Maybe you're remembering him?"

Bucky nods, brow wrinkling in concentration. "I think… there was something to do with a car crash?"

The words stop Steve cold. _No. It couldn't be_. "Tony's parents died in a car crash," he says slowly, trying to keep the dread out of his voice.

To his great relief, Bucky shakes his head. "N-no, it wasn't… it was funny. Not… not a real crash. I think…" He stops, shakes his head again. "No, I must be—be misremembering. It doesn't make any sense." He almost laughs, more an exhale than a sound. "I'm crazy, never mind."

"What? Why?"

"Well… cars don't fly, do they?"

“Ha. No, I think Howard must've scared them off—oh!”

"What?"

"The Stark Expo!” Steve says excitedly. “Howard was showing off a flying car, and it crashed onstage. We were both there, maybe you…?"

Bucky takes a deep breath, a look of restrained wonder crossing his features. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I do. I remember that!" Abruptly, his expression changes. "And _you_ snuck off to enlist again, you little _punk_.”

"I did," Steve agrees cheerfully. "I was a moron. Had no idea how good I had it."

"Why did you?" asks Bucky. "I don't remember."

"Hitler was trying to take over the world, Buck. He was rounding up innocent people and slaughtering them. Someone had to stop him."

"And it had to be you?"

Steve smiles bitterly. "God, no. I knew I probably wouldn't survive long on the front, but… everyone else was doing their part, and I figured, I had no right to do any less. And...” He pauses, Bucky’s words of seventy years ago ringing in his ears. He hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time, but now, with the clarity provided by three years of hard experience, he can accept that Bucky was right. As usual, he had seen all the truths Steve refused to acknowledge. “I wanted to prove I was worth something, that I was as capable as anyone else. Everyone else was going, and I couldn’t bear to be left behind.”

Bucky seems to accept this, mulling it over before asking, “And… why did _I_?”

Steve sighs. “You, um, didn’t choose to. You were drafted.”

“ _What_?” He looks flabbergasted—more so than Steve would have expected for such a small piece of information. “Are you _sure_?”

“Well, yeah,” says Steve, shifting uncomfortably. “I remember you getting the letter.”

Bucky turns away, his face pale. The hand he puts up to hide his expression trembles.

“Bucky? What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

He shakes his head, still averting his face, then takes a deep breath and exhales. “They told me… the one thing I _knew_ was that I joined. I volunteered. I wanted to serve. That was—it was almost the only thing I remembered, after the Chair. That this was my choice. And it wasn’t. It never was.” His voice breaks. “Not any of it.”

“I’m sorry,” says Steve, his own voice unsteady. “I’m sorry, Bucky, you—you never asked to fight, and after Azzano, they would’ve let you go home—you _would have_ , but I—I needed you, and so you stayed. I’m so sorry.”

“But you said you joined because it was—because he needed to be stopped. And I didn’t? Was I a—a coward, or...?”

“No, Bucky,” he says gently. “You were a good man, one of the bravest I ever knew. Your priorities were—just different from mine. Your family needed you, and you were, um, a bit more realistic about our chances over there than I was.”

“And you didn’t—despise me?”

“Bucky… no, of course not. Do you really think we’d be here, if we did?”

A long pause, slightly too long for Steve’s peace of mind, but at last Bucky shakes his head. “No, I… I guess not.”

“Of _course_ not.”

He manages a weak little smile, which fades quickly as he stares at his hands, clearly thinking something over. “That… Howard,” he says finally. “He died? Him and Tony's mom?”

"Yeah. Her name was Maria. We never met her, I guess they must have met each other after the war." He clears his throat. When Fury had originally briefed him on his teammates, he had only told him that Howard was dead, and Steve hadn't dared ask more. Natasha's file had included far more information, and Steve is still working through the shock of it.

"Howard had a business partner, Obadiah Stane. He was a friend, too; he was Tony's godfather."

Bucky makes a small noise in the back of his throat; he's clearly guessed that this is going nowhere good.

"When Tony was twenty or so, Howard announced he was going to inherit the company. I guess Stane had expected it to be him—Tony and Howard didn't get along very well. But, um, I suppose he must’ve figured Tony was young enough, he could be the power behind the throne, or—or something. Anyhow, Stane—arranged an accident. Sabotaged the car somehow. He knew Howard liked to drive fast. And Howard—everyone thought he'd been drinking. No one suspected."

"But… Tony?"

Steve sighs. "He didn't find out until years later— just a few years ago, in fact. He started taking more control in the company, so Stane tried to off him, too. Luckily, Tony is Tony, so he survived. Stane, uh, didn't."

Bucky nods, solemn but not surprised. This sort of sordid affair, Steve reflects, must seem more predictable to him than any act of kindness or sympathy. And speaking of sympathy…. “I, uh, wouldn't mention Tony's parents to him, if you can help it. It's kind of a sore subject.”

"Because they died?"

"Because Howard was kind of, um, awful. As a parent, I mean, he was alright as a person. I have no idea what Maria was like; I haven't dared bring it up."

Bucky nods. "Steve, about the car crash…"

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't… I wasn't involved, was I? Just, your face when I said that…"

"I don't see how you could have been, Buck. It happened in '91, when Karpov had you in Cuba." He takes a breath. "I'll be honest, I got scared when you said you remembered a car accident, but… if you'd been involved, we'd have found out by now, I'm sure of it."

"Okay." Bucky settles back amongst the pillows, reassured. "I… it would probably be, um, difficult, if….”

Steve suppresses a shudder. "I know. It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“But there were others. Right?”

“Others?”

“You said… it’s been a long time,” says Bucky. “You can’t tell me I didn’t—I was their, their assassin.” His mouth twists, voice laden with dark humor. “Their ‘murderous puppet.’”

An image flashes through his mind—not Bucky, but the boy in Yemen, hiding in a chicken coop. Steve flinches from it, grabbing a turnover from the pastry box to hide his shaking hands. “There’s a file,” he says after a moment. “Natasha dug up a bunch of information on you. I think—from what I saw, it was mostly political assassinations. Some guerilla stuff, too… the Russians, you know.”

Bucky gives him a dry look. “Assume I don’t.”

“Oh. Right. The, uh, Soviets had you until the 90s, and then it was the Cubans. Ross only got hold of you in the 2000s.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll have her send everything to us, if she hasn’t already. If you want to see it.”

“I suppose that would be best,” says Bucky, without enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

Steve shakes his head, pained. “Don’t thank me. Not for that.”

Perhaps Bucky senses some of what Steve is feeling, because his voice is unusually gentle as he says, “Very well. We don’t need to talk of it now. Tell me about something else. Something before the war.”

For a moment, Steve just stares at him in helpless affection, awed that after everything he’s been through, everything he’s been _reduced_ to, Bucky still somehow knows the right things to say to him. That Bucky is still trying to _take care_ of him, after all this time.  “Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “Okay.”

A glimmer of humor enters Bucky’s eyes. “And drink your cocoa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played super fast and loose with canon in this one-- for some reason I was thinking Obadiah Stane was Tony's godfather, and even though it turns out that's not the case in MCU canon, I liked the idea so much I kept it. Just a little more angst for this angsty, angsty universe. But on the other hand, no Bucky-Tony murder drama, so I guess that's good. Hopefully it all makes sense, but feel free to comment if you have any questions about that particular part of the story!  
> Ummm let's see, what else. Dr. Madani is an OC; his name is supposed to be a Nigerian Muslim name (the idea being that either he is or his parents were immigrants). Hopefully I got it right-- if you spot any errors, please feel free to let me know!


	14. Malibu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for the aftermath of a nightmare, discussions of stuff that happened in previous chapters, mentions of Alzheimer's disease.

_Pylades: I’ll take care of you._

_Orestes: It’s rotten work._

_Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you._

\--“Orestes”, Euripides, from _An Oresteia_ (trans. Anne Carson)

 

Tony’s Malibu house is beautiful, right on the coast with windows everywhere to take advantage of what, even at night, is clearly a spectacular view. The walls and ceilings are gracefully curved, with rounded skylights and staircases, as though the designer was allergic to straight lines. The large rooms are scattered with indoor water features, potted plants, giant fireplaces, and decorative granite boulders, natural elements blending more or less seamlessly with the modern art decorating the walls, the futuristic appliances, and white sectional sofas.

Steve has never seen anyplace like it.

He and Bucky have a suite overlooking the bay, with two bedrooms and bathrooms, a sitting room, and a door to the outside, which Steve is particularly grateful for: they both feel better for having an obvious escape route. There’s an honest-to-God Matisse on the wall in the sitting room, and Steve has to hyperventilate for a little bit when JARVIS informs him it’s an original.

“I knew Stark was rich,” he says wonderingly. “I just never really _conceptualized_ …”

Clint, who took his hearing aids out for the plane journey and never put them back in, gives him a questioning look.

 _Sorry_ , Steve signs, then quickly writes down what he’d said in his notebook and shows it to him. He really needs to work on his sign language.

“Oh yeah,” says Clint, digging his hearing aids out of his pocket. “He’s hella loaded. Part of the one percent, and all that.”

Steve waits until Clint’s aids are in place before asking, “The one percent?”

“Oh, you know, the whole Occupy Wall Street thing—oh, I guess you wouldn’t. Basically, the top point-one percent of people in the U.S. make like a hundred and eighty percent more than the bottom ninety percent. And Stark’s like, a billionaire, so he’s sort of, you know, the enemy of the people, except he also has these giant charities and his employees have tons of benefits and he actually doesn’t even give himself a salary anymore, but, you know… still the one percent.”

Steve blinks, trying to wrap his head around anyone having that much wealth. The inequality doesn’t really surprise him—he grew up in the thirties, after all—but it does feel like one more way the future has failed to improve on the past.

“Does that make us class traitors?” Bucky asks in a concerned tone.

Steve turns to find him examining the fancy coffee machine with a slight smile on his face. _That was a joke._ Bucky _made a_ joke _!_

“What, ‘cause we’re schmoozing with the rich and famous?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t we be out there, um, picketing or something, instead?”

Warmth leaps up in Steve’s chest. Bucky is _joking_. Bucky has a _sense of humor._ Bucky _remembers_! “We can do that tomorrow—well, later today, I guess,” he says. “We can make signs: ‘A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work’, or ‘tax the wealthy’…”

“I’m sure it would make a big impact,” Bucky says seriously. “Out here, with so many people around.”

Steve can’t keep a straight face any longer; he bursts out laughing.

 

The bedroom set aside for Steve is much bigger than his cell, and it’s even slightly bigger than his room at the Avengers’ Compound, but somehow it still feels claustrophobic. Maybe it’s because of the cream-colored walls, or the unfamiliar materials and textures of the furnishings, or the lingering smell of an artificial air-freshener. Maybe it’s the sight of the closed door. Whatever it is, he finds he can’t sleep, feeling trapped and restless, kept awake by the hum of the air conditioning and the light of the alarm clock’s LED display.

Eventually, he gets tired of tossing and turning and pads out to the sitting room, only to find Bucky already there, sitting on the floor beside the big, west-facing window.

“Buck?” Steve asks, and Bucky turns his head, a weary almost-smile crossing his features.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Go ahead.”

Steve crosses the room to sit next to him, his tension fading as he takes in the expanse of ocean before them, black water gilded by moonlight. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Me, neither.” He leans his forehead against the cool glass, grounding himself. _You’re free. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here._

“I felt like I couldn’t breathe,” he finds himself saying. “I know it’s stupid, that room’s bigger than our first apartment, I just…”

“I know,” says Bucky.

Steve looks at him, grateful beyond words to have someone with him who understands. “I’m glad you’re here, Buck,” he says softly.

“You saved me.” Bucky’s hand makes an aborted gesture, as though he started to touch Steve and thought better of it. “I didn’t—I didn’t even know. But you did.”

“You saved me first. If it hadn’t been for you… I was halfway to forgetting what it felt like to be human.” He smiles at him, a bit too soft, a bit too fond, but that’s alright. There’s no one here to see but Bucky, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

Bucky considers this, resting his chin on his knees. “The stuff they did to you… I wanted to stop them. I didn’t think I _could_. But I wanted to.”

“It won’t happen again,” Steve promises. “I won’t let it. We have the Avengers on our side, now. If Ross wants us back, he’ll have to go through them.”

“No more fighting,” says Bucky, but it sounds more like a question than a statement of fact.

Steve can feel the same uncertainty lurking in his own heart; even now, he keeps waiting for all this to be taken away. Maybe that’s why he can’t sleep—the fear that he’ll close his door and find it locked from the outside.

“No more fighting,” he whispers, a prayer and a demand and a challenge to whoever might think they can take this away from them. “No more fighting.”

They sit in silence for a while, watching the moon sink ever lower toward the horizon, until Bucky yawns and casts an unhappy look toward his bedroom.

Steve feels anxiety prickle his skin. He doesn’t want to go back to his room, either. “We could sleep out here,” he suggests. “Put the couch cushions on the floor, like when we were kids.”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay. We can make new memories.”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth curve upward. “New memories,” he repeats. “I’d… like that.”

“C’mon,” says Steve. “We’ll use the blankets from our beds.”

It doesn’t take them long to make beds on the floor, a nest of cushions and blankets butted up against the big window. Out here, it feels like there’s room to breathe, and the moonlight and the soft breeze coming through the open side windows are constant reminders of where they are. Safe. Free.

They lie down within reach of each other, and Steve is vividly reminded of being eight years old and sleeping over at the Barneses’ house, whispering and giggling with Bucky until late into the night. They’re a lot older now, and grimmer, but the comfort of having his best friend nearby has not abated.

“G’night, Buck,” he whispers, and smiles when metal fingers brush his.

“Good night.”

 

He’s woken by a change in Bucky’s breathing, going from the deep slow inhale-exhale of sleep to the shallow, hitching gasps that mean trouble. When he sits up, he finds Bucky still asleep, his face contorted with distress as he trembles and whimpers.

 _Nightmare_ , Steve thinks wearily. This, at least, he has experience with; Bucky had had nightmares during the war, too.

He knows better than to touch him—the first time he’d tried that, Bucky had nearly broken his nose, and it had taken nearly half an hour to convince him nobody was trying to kill him, and longer than that before he calmed enough to sleep again. He has to wake him another way.

“Bucky,” he says softly. “Bucky, wake up. It’s just a dream. You’re dreaming, Bucky.”

This seems to have no effect. Getting to his knees, just out of reach of Bucky’s flailing arms, he falls back on the easiest thing he knows.

“ _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum_ ,” he murmurs. “ _Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus._ ” His voice takes on a pleading note, begging—for intercession, or blessing, or just for Bucky to wake up from whatever dark world he’s trapped in. “ _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen_.”

Bucky quivers, moaning and clawing at the blankets. Everything in Steve yearns to go to him, but he knows he can’t. He has to wake him up first.

“Bucky,” he pleads. “Bucky. Wake up, you’re safe. Please, Buck.”

Bucky cries out, flailing wildly.

Steve’s hands tremble with the need to touch him. “ _Ave Maria_ ,” he says desperately, raising his voice above the terrible sound of Bucky’s anguish. “ _Gratia plena, Dominus tecum._ ”

“No,” says Bucky hoarsely. “No!”

“ _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus…_ ” He breaks off, then closes his eyes, pulling on another memory of prayer.

“ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha-olam,_ ” he begins slowly. The Hebrew is rusty on his tongue; he hasn’t recited or heard the Kiddush since 1943. It’s not exactly right for this situation, but it’s all the Hebrew he knows.

He fumbles for a moment, trying to remember the melodic intonation of the prayer. “ _Asher kid'shan—shanu— b'mitz'votav v'ratzah vanu....v— v'shabat kad'sho b'ahavah uv'ratzon hin'chilanu zikaron l'ma'aseih v'rei'shit..._ ”

In his tangle of blankets, Bucky stills, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

“ _Ki hu yom t'chilah l'mik—l’mik'ra'ei kodesh... zeikher litzi'at Mitz'rayim..._ ”

Bucky opens his eyes.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers hesitantly.

There’s no answer. Bucky just stares at him with wide, wild eyes. His harsh breathing fills the room.

Steve inches closer, but stops when Bucky shrinks backward, away from him. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s just me. It’s Steve. It’s okay, pal, I got you. I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever again.”

Bucky continues to stare at him for one long, fraught second, then flings himself at Steve, nearly knocking him over, and buries his face in Steve’s shirt. Steve, who half-expected to be attacked, stiffens, then relaxes, wrapping his arms around his friend and rocking him gently. “It’s okay, buddy, I got you. I got you. You’re safe.”

He can feel Bucky trembling, hear the way his breath hitches and turns into sobs. “It’s okay,” he says softly, and picks up where he left off. “ _Ki vanu vachar'ta v'otan—v’otanu kidash'ta mikol ha'amim_.... _v'shabat kad'sh'kha b'ahavah uv'ratzon hin'chal'tanu._ ” He rubs Bucky’s back, up and down, up and down, and presses his cheek to Bucky’s dark hair. “ _Barukh atah Adonai m'kadeish hashabat. Amein._ ”

“I know those words,” Bucky whispers, muffled against his collarbone. “But I don’t know what they mean.”

Steve’s heart breaks. “It’s Hebrew, Buck,” he says softly. “It’s—part of the prayer for Shabbat. The Kiddush.”

“I don’t—” He grabs a handful of Steve’s shirt, pressing himself closer, as though trying to burrow right under his skin. “I—don’t remember.”

“It’s a, an observance,” Steve says, faltering. “For the Jewish people. To, um, ask for blessing, before the meal.”

“You’re not Jewish.” He sounds uncertain. “Are you?”

“No, but I remember a bit, from Shabbats at your house. With your family. After my ma died, especially, I’d always go and have supper with you on Friday nights.”

Bucky raises his head at that, making eye contact with Steve for the first time. His face is crusted with tears, and his nose is running. “I’ve forgotten,” he whispers. “The words, the—what it was for.”

Steve hands him a Kleenex. “But you—you recognized the words?”

Bucky blows his nose, and collapses back into Steve’s embrace. “I... maybe. I heard it—in my dreams, and I knew—it sounded like—like—”

“Like home,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky clings to him.

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember the other prayers,” says Steve, feeling terribly inadequate in the face of all that Bucky has lost. “But I’ll relearn them. We can both relearn them, if you want. They shouldn’t—they don’t get to take that away from you, Bucky. We won’t let them.”

Bucky’s breath is wet and ragged on Steve’s neck. “Can you—say it again? Please?”

“Of course, Buck.” Steve shifts a little so he can lean against the side of the couch, and settles Bucky into the vee of his legs, still rubbing his back. “ _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu,_ ” he starts again. “ _melekh ha-olam_...”

The words bring him back to dinners with Bucky’s family, familiar faces lit by candlelight. He remembers Winifred lighting the candles, her face reverent and serious; George, speaking the verses aloud in his deep, measured voice; the girls, usually fidgeting and giggling, solemn and still as they watched the wine being poured, the challah raised and blessed. It had always felt like a privilege to join them, to be taught the words until they no longer felt clumsy on his tongue.

It’s another sort of homecoming, to hold Bucky close and murmur the sacred words, until they fall asleep in the grey light of dawn.

 

Even without what they’ve been through, Malibu would feel like paradise. It’s always warm, and they soon discover steps leading down to a private beach, where they can lie in the sun or pick through the tide pools, or watch the sun setting into the sea. Neither of them has any desire to swim in the cold water of the Pacific, but the pool is a different matter. Open to the elements, with flowers blooming all around it and jacaranda trees shading one end, it feels a world away from the tortures they’ve experienced, and Steve’s memories of drowning.

They spend a lot of time lazing on the stupid floaty-bed things from the little pool-house, drifting slowly around the pool and drinking lemonade. Thor and Clint often join them, sitting in the shade and drinking various cocktails of Clint’s creation, or swimming around and trying to dunk each other in the pool. When they get too rowdy, Steve and Bucky usually go for a walk. Neither of them are really interested in roughhousing, but the sound of their laughter makes something inside Steve warm nevertheless.

Steve teaches the others to play pinochle, on the grounds that Clint can’t cheat at a card game he’s never played. This goes swimmingly, until about halfway through the second game, when Bucky inconveniently remembers both how to play pinochle and how to count cards, after which he and Clint beat Steve and Thor handily.

“You couldn’t have remembered while _we_ were partners?” Steve demands, and Bucky just grins.

After that, Clint introduces them to a game called Skyrim, played using the TV screen and handheld controllers. Thor, for some reason, is extremely good at it; Bucky refuses to do more than watch after accidentally crushing the remote, and Steve keeps getting lost in the artistic details of the game, and forgetting to actually move. His character keeps getting killed as a result, but he’s having too much fun exploring the onscreen world to care.

Dr. Madani forwards the X-ray results to them, along with comments from the orthopedist, Dr. Anita Stanton. Though none of them have any current broken bones, she tells them that Bucky has broken almost every bone in his body at one point or another, and that his spine has been augmented with metal rods, presumably to take the weight of his arm.

 _I would strongly suggest finding a lighter prosthetic if you can_ , she writes. _Your current prosthetic exerts a constant pull on your spine and shoulders, which will inevitably lead to problems in your hips, knees, and back later on, if it hasn’t already. These issues can be mitigated through stretching exercises and physical therapy—I can recommend specialists if you like_.

Of Steve’s crooked toes, she adds, _I can reset them for you if they’re giving you any trouble, but be aware that this would mean rebreaking them. I’m happy to consult if you are undecided_.

Steve has to put his head on his knees and breathe for a bit after reading that one. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that resetting a broken bone would mean breaking it, and now that it’s been pointed out to him, all he can think of is the sound it made the first time they were broken.

To his mild surprise, Bucky stays next to him on the couch, rubbing slow circles on his back until he calms.

“They can’t make you,” he says quietly, an echo of the reassurance Steve keeps giving him. “You don’t have to let them.”

“I know, Buck,” says Steve hoarsely, fumbling for Bucky’s other hand and holding it tight. “I know, I just—I…”

“I know.” His hand on Steve’s back is a steady pressure, warm and comforting. “Don’t you think I know?”

Steve sighs, letting the tension fall away, and leans back against the couch, eyes closed. “Love you, Buck,” he mumbles, then stills as he realizes what he just said aloud.

There’s a moment’s waiting silence, then Bucky says, so quietly as to be nearly inaudible, “Love you, too.”

 

 

On the third day, Natasha shows up with several large flat-pack boxes.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” she says in response to Steve’s questions. “Carry them up to your suite for me?”

 “Oh, I see, you just want us for workhorses.”

“Hey, I brought you presents, the least you can do is carry them.”

Steve trips on the step he’s climbing. “You… presents?”

“Well, technically it’s _a_ present, and technically it’s from Tony, but who cares about details?” She holds the door to the suite open for him and Bucky, then perches on the back of the sofa. “Go on, open it. I’m curious what you’ll think.”

Steve looks at Bucky, shrugs, and sets about cutting open one of the boxes, while Bucky starts on the other. What they uncover looks like a pair of narrow wooden platforms, a bunch of posts, and a bag of bolts, nuts, and washers.

“What is it?”

“It’s a futon.” At their blank looks, she elaborates, “It’s a type of bed. You can fold it into a sofa during the day, and turn it into a bed at night. Stark thought you could replace this—” patting the couch she’s currently sitting on—“with that. Since you seem to want to sleep in the living room anyway.”

Steve drops the bag of screws. “How did you know that?”

“JARVIS mentioned it when Stark asked how you were settling in.”

He shoots a betrayed glance at the ceiling, as though JARVIS is a person he can make eye-contact with. “So he’s reporting on us, now?”

“We just wanted to know how you and Barnes were doing,” she says gently.

“So you put us under surveillance. Just like Ross. Just like SHIELD.”

To his great surprise, she actually looks contrite. “I’m sorry, Steve. We’re all just so used to JARVIS—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He softens, though he can’t help still being a little distrustful. “You’ll tell him to stop monitoring us?”

“If I may, Captain,” JARVIS puts in. “You may review and update my privacy protocols on your tablet or phone. I will abide by whatever privacy settings you select, and Sir will not be able to override them, unless your actions directly threaten the wellbeing of either Sir or another person in this building.”

“Thanks,” he says after a moment. He hesitates, then adds, “And, um, tell Stark thanks for the bed-couch thing. It’s… I’m not happy about how he went about it, but it was a kind gesture.”

“I expected to be monitored,” Bucky says suddenly. He’s been quiet through their whole conversation, melting into the background in the way he’s so good at. “I didn’t think we had a choice.”

Natasha holds his gaze. “It’s not our intention to take choices away from you, Bucky. Either of you. And if you’re unhappy with something one of us does, you need only say so, and we’ll figure out a solution.”

He nods, with the half-hopeful, half-disbelieving expression Steve is becoming more and more familiar with. “Okay.”

There’s a brief pause, broken by Thor entering the room, with Clint right behind him. “Natasha! JARVIS said you were here! What’s up?”

“Hey, guys. Want to help us put a futon together?”

Clint looks at the pieces piled around Steve and Bucky, then at Natasha. “Um. You remember what happened with that chair from IKEA, right?”

“Good point,” she says. “Maybe you should just, like, hand us things.”

“What happened to the chair?” asks Steve.

“He put the legs on upside-down.”

“Oh, that’s not _so_ bad…”

“And didn’t notice until he tried to sit on it.”

“Oh.”

“In my defense, I defy _anyone_ to have understood those directions.”

“Most people have a basic concept of what a chair is supposed to look like, Clint.”

He shrugs, conceding the point, and picks his way through the discarded boxes to swing himself onto the counter. “I’d rather watch you guys do the work, anyway.”

“Thanks,” says Natasha drily.

Thor hoists the old couch onto his shoulder. “Shall I take this out? You’ll need room to assemble the new one.”

“Yeah, Thor, thanks.” She turns her attention to the pieces laid out on the floor, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Okay, first things first—instructions.”

 

“I had an interesting phone call yesterday,” Natasha says that evening, after dinner.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. From one Peggy Carter.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat; he raises his eyes to hers, disbelieving. He knew Peggy was alive, of course, but somehow, the idea of her speaking to Natasha seems absurd, his two lives crashing and blurring together where previously they had seemed distinct. It’s easiest to think of himself and Bucky as travelers, transported together through ice and time to a strange land, and everyone else from their past left behind and unreachable.

“She asked to speak to you,” says Natasha, regarding him intently. “I told her I’d ask you.”

“On…” His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, tries again. “On the phone?”

“On the computer, actually. Video chat. If you want.” There’s something a little too understanding in her expression, and he flinches from it, averting his eyes. “If it’s too much right now, I’m sure she’d understand.”

Steve thinks of the years they’ve lost, years and years—of friendship, or perhaps even something more. Of her thinking him dead all this time, grieving him, moving on, only to find out he was alive—the same way he had thought Bucky dead, and had found him again. After seventy years, would he have had the courage to reach out, to raise that ghost, even one as beloved as Peggy or Bucky? He hopes so, but he also knows he’s not nearly so brave as others always seem to think.

He hopes he’s learned, now, not to take what time he has for granted. Not to take the people he loves for granted.

“Of course I’ll see her,” he says. “When does she…?”

Natasha’s eyes gleam approvingly. “Tomorrow morning at ten. That work for you?”

He nods, before he can change his mind. “Yeah, that… that works for me.”

There’s a moment of silence, broken by Bucky asking, “Who is Peggy Carter?”

 

 

Steve waits in front of the screen, clicking the button on the end of his pen until Bucky makes an irritated noise and takes it away from him.

“Sorry,” says Steve, now bouncing his knee. “Sorry, sorry—”

“Steve, relax,” Natasha interrupts. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know, I just—”

The computer makes a _boo-BEE-bloop_ sound, and a message flashes on the display: _Margaret calling._ For a moment, Steve is completely paralyzed, staring at the screen in mute indecision. He _wants_ to see her, he does, but—but—

“Click ‘Answer with video,’” says Natasha, leaning over him and pointing.

Steve watches the thing flash and make its weird drip-like tone, his mouse hovering over the button. It’s ridiculous to feel so nervous about this, but he can’t quite help feeling that this will make everything real—as though he could still somehow pretend that he didn’t end up in the wrong century, as long as he doesn’t see the incontrovertible proof. Once he clicks that button, he won’t ever be able to pretend that the young woman he loved—loves— is still waiting for him somewhere, along with the life he knew.

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly, touching his knee. “Don’t keep her waiting.”

 _A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club_ , her voice says in his head. _Don’t you dare be late._

He briefly closes his eyes, swallows, and clicks the button.

At first, the woman on the screen seems like a complete stranger, with her white hair and crinkled-paper skin. Then she smiles and lifts her chin, and he sees the spark in her eyes, the familiar curve of her mouth.

 _“Peggy_ ,” he breathes, and Peggy’s smile wavers, eyes gleaming with unshed tears.

“Steve,” she says, and it reminds him of nothing so much as that last conversation over the radio as he plunged to his death. The age in her voice now could be the distortion of static, and it holds the same slight quaver. “It’s so good to see you.”

He knows he should say something, anything, but he’s afraid his voice won’t hold steady, so he just nods, blinking hard.

“I saw on the news,” she says after a moment. “I couldn’t believe it. I’m—I’m so sorry, darling. You don’t know how sorry I am. But you have to know, we looked for you. We never would have left you there if we’d—if we’d had any idea….”

He nods again, still unable to speak. It’s so close to what he’s said to Bucky, except he never looked. That fact is going to haunt him for the rest of his days. He doesn’t want it to haunt Peggy.

“I know,” he says at last. “I made my choice, Peg—none of us could’ve predicted— _this._ ”

“It must have been quite the shock for you.”

He thinks of the room he’d first woken up in, of Bucky, robotic and faceless in that hateful mask, and Ross gloating over him in his plush office. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “You could say that.”

In the pause that follows, he hears Natasha quietly leave the room, giving them privacy. Peggy is looking at him with eyes liquid with sympathy, and he can’t stand it, can’t stand her pity and the regrets crowding his throat.

“Bucky’s here, too,” he says, turning the screen a bit so she can see.

“Yes, I heard—hello, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Just Bucky,” says Bucky, shifting a little closer to Steve, so their shoulders are brushing. “I, um, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Peggy looks confused, and Steve mentally kicks himself—he hadn’t thought to warn her of this, and apparently it wasn’t a detail that made it on the news.

“They messed with Bucky’s mind, Peg,” he says, laying a hand over Bucky’s. “He, um, he doesn’t remember everything from before.”

“Most things,” corrects Bucky, giving Steve a look that tells him exactly what he thinks of him sugar-coating it. “I don’t remember most things. Steve told me who you were, but…” He shrugs.

Peggy nods. “Don’t worry, I know how _that_ is. We can fill in each other’s gaps.”

They must both look their confusion, because she sighs, and gives them a brave smile. “Did they not tell you? I have Alzheimer’s, darling. My memory… is not what it was, either.”

“Peggy—”

“It is what it is. Nothing to be done. It’s alright. I’m ninety-two. It’s to be expected, apparently.” She makes a face at that, and Steve can’t help laughing, even as his heart feels like it’s tearing in two. This isn’t something he ever expected.

“But, you seem—fine, like yourself—”

“Yes,” she says calmly. “Today is a good day. Don’t let’s talk of it, darling. Tell me about yourselves, what you’ve been doing—how you are. I want to know everything.”

His chest clenches. “I—I’d rather hear about you,” he says haltingly. “If that’s alright.”

“Oh—oh, yes, of course. I won’t make you rake it all up again—I just wanted to know—you _are_ alright, aren’t you? I mean, you’re—you’re safe?”

Steve’s hand clenches on Bucky’s, the metal reassuringly solid beneath his fingers. “We’re safe, Peggy, and we—we’ll get better, it just takes time. Or at least, that’s what they tell me.”

“Time does help,” she says, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that Steve can’t bear to look at too closely. “And so will your friends, if you let them.”

“I’m trying.”

“Good. Well, I promised to tell you about me, though goodness knows it’s mostly old news by now…”

“Not to me,” says Steve softly.

“No, well. I suppose not.” She hesitates, however, clearly at a loss for where to start.

 _It’s a long time_ , he thinks. _Seventy years is an awfully long time._ “Suppose you start with SHIELD,” he says. “They told me you founded it.”

She laughs. “Oh, yes, now _there_ was a challenge. Chester and I hatched the plan between us, and Howard was onboard, once we could get him to sit still long enough to listen to us, but I think everyone else thought we were mad. And of course, all us women were supposed to go back to being good little housewives after the war, and here I was, running around government lobbying for an international intelligence agency.”

“I hope you smacked some heads together.”

Peggy smirks. “Well, perhaps one or two. I had a couple of blazing rows with—oh, what’s his name, from the CIA— _awful_ man, I wish you could have met him, just to see that sour-lemon look on your face. Anyway, after that, we realized if we wanted anything done, we’d have to do it ourselves. That’s when the real fun began.”

She continues on, talking about the SSR after the war, the struggles of getting SHIELD off the ground, their efforts to wipe HYDRA out completely, and the challenges she faced after becoming director of the agency. Steve knew some of it already, but it’s more interesting to hear it from her, with her customary bluntness and wry humor. It’s obvious that she’d not had an easy time of it, and equally obvious that she had not so much as overcome obstacles as reduced them to rubble.

Every now and then she gets confused, repeating herself or forgetting names and places—and a few times, seems to assume Steve has met various government higher-ups who came to power after his time. It makes his heart ache every time, but he tries not to show it—just gently prompts her to the next bit of the story. Slight lapses aside, at the end of it she’s still _Peggy_ —brilliant and incisive, witty, ruthlessly clear-sighted but still _kind_. He’s always known she was an amazing person—now he realizes all over again exactly how amazing she is.

“Tell me about your family,” he says, when she finishes describing her time at SHIELD. “I read that you—you got married…”

She gives him a searching look. “Are you sure, Steve? I don’t want to be… insensitive, or…?”

“Peggy, it’s your life, of course I want to know.” He swallows. “I never—I didn’t have any claim on you, but I never would’ve expected you to—to—I’m _glad_ you found someone, that you weren’t… that you, um, moved on…”

“You saying I need a man to make me happy, Rogers?” she asks, and though he knows she’s laughing at him, he still finds himself backtracking as quickly as he knows how.

“No, of course not! I just meant, I’m glad that you _did_ find happiness with… I’m just digging myself in deeper, aren’t I.”

Her eyes sparkle. “You are, my dear, but do carry on. It’s quite amusing.”

Steve buries his face in his hands. “You’re the worst.”

“Your ears are red,” Bucky puts in helpfully, and Steve levels a sideways glare at him through his fingers.

“You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to, pal,” says Bucky, and his eyes immediately widen in surprise, like they do every time he reverts to some habit from his past. Steve has begun to think of it as him channeling his former self, which is weird, but probably no weirder than anything else that’s happened to them.

“Very well,” says Peggy, laughing. “I _did_ meet someone—his name is David, and he was—do you remember that winter near Stalingrad, when you rescued all those men trapped behind the German line?”

It had been less than a year ago, in his reckoning. It’s bizarre to realize, again, how long ago all that is for her. “Yeah, of course.”

“Well, he was one of those soldiers.” Her smile, once more, holds a hint of tears. “Even after you were gone, you were still changing my life.”

“I guess it’s only fair,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “You certainly changed mine.”

“I suppose. Well, at any rate, we met again after the war. You’ll appreciate this, actually—there was this group who was—sort of an American offshoot of HYDRA, and I’d been trying to take them down for ages. Anyway, I got cornered by about ten of them in this club, and in the middle of the melee, this gorgeous man comes barreling in and starts taking them out with his _crutch_. We finally beat them, and I was—well, I was annoyed, to be honest, at being taken by surprise, and I said, ‘I don’t need rescuing!’

Well, he looked at me, and gave me this sort of lopsided grin, and said, ‘I don’t doubt it, but it looked like so much fun, I couldn’t resist joining in!’”

Steve laughs. “He sounds perfect.”

“Yes, it does seem I have a type,” she says archly, and Steve blushes. “Anyway, we got to talking, and he told me about his time in the service—he’d gotten shrapnel damage to his leg, toward the end of the war, so he usually used a crutch or a cane to walk. He’s an engineer, just a _brilliant_ man, and… well, we became friends, and then we became… more.”

He thinks of the picture he’d seen, Peggy beside the handsome brown-skinned man, children grinning toothily at the camera. “He sounds wonderful, Peggy,” he says earnestly. “I wish I could have met him.”

“I do, too. You would’ve gotten along, I think. Even with—everything. Anyway, I had Michael when I was thirty-eight—and you’d think I was practically ancient, the way everyone was clucking over me and my ‘biological clock’—and Stephanie two years later.”

“Michael, for your brother?”

“And Stephanie for you,” she says, nodding.

He’s not sure what his expression does in response to that, but she leans forward, eyes intent. “Darling, why are you surprised? You know how I felt.”

Dimly, he registers Bucky slipping away, the click of the door as it closes behind him. The lump in his throat feels too large for speech, but at last he says, half-choking, “But it had been so long.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “Time does heal all wounds. But we don’t forget the people we loved, Steve—or even stop loving them, not really. You must know that.”

His breath hitches, vision blurring. “I know, but I—I never thought—”

“That I cared for you? That I loved you? Oh, Steve. Of course I did. I never stopped.”

“I thought… I just… it’s all so new to me, Peg. Less than a year. I still—I still love you, too, but I never thought—I mean, I know it’s too late…”

“Darling,” she says, and her voice is kind, laden with sorrow and compassion. “You’re allowed to love me, and still move on. I’ve had a good life. My only regret is that you never got to live yours.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses. His thoughts are all tangled up—Bucky and the Avengers, SHIELD and this strange state of half-vacation, half-hiding; a longing for peace, and the conviction, barely acknowledged even to himself, that he’ll never really be able to stop fighting. “I thought… before I had a purpose, and a mission, and I—I guess I never really thought past the end of the war. And now… everything’s different.”

Peggy nods. “I know it’s hard to adjust. The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best. And sometimes... the best that we can do is to start over.”

“I don’t know if I know how.”

She grins, suddenly. “So dramatic, Steve. Of course you do. Start with your young man, for one thing.”

If he’d been drinking water, he would have spat it out. “My—my young man?”

“Your Bucky,” she says, as though _that_ was what he needed clarified. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

His ears burn. “Well… yes.”

“Good. I imagine it will be good for both of you.”

“I don’t even know if he feels the same way,” he protests.

She raises her eyebrows skeptically. “Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

Steve stares at her for a long moment, then finally exhales, slumping back against the couch. “Alright,” he says, without heat. “I will. But you’re a terrible influence, Peggy Carter.”

She cackles at him, eyes sparkling with unholy delight. “I try, Steve. I try.”

 

The conversation settles something inside him; somehow, the future doesn’t seem so bleak, with Peggy’s straightforward perspective to guide him. He texts her frequently, gets updates on the legal situation from Tony and Natasha, Skypes with Bruce, practices sign language with Clint and Bucky, and plays Skyrim with Thor. And always, always, he observes Bucky, watches as he comes out of his shell, his confidence growing every day.

 

They’ve been in Malibu for about a week and a half when Steve and Bucky take a walk down to the beach to watch the sunset. It’s warm enough that Steve rolls up his pant legs, and Bucky takes off his shirt, basking in the last rays of the sun. The water turns gold and pink, then fades to blue as the sun sinks below the western horizon. One by one, the stars come out, and Steve thinks of the freckles Bucky used to get in the summer, sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, and along the tops of his shoulders.

Now, when he turns his head, it’s to see Bucky lying on his stomach on the blanket, bare toes dug into the sand, moonlight gleaming on his metal arm. His naked back looks pale and smooth, the scars nearly invisible in the forgiving twilight. Steve wants to kiss the vulnerable place between his shoulder blades, smooth his fingers through the dark hair pooling like spilled ink across his back.

 _Now_ , he thinks, and his pulse quickens. The odds are that Bucky doesn’t want him that way—he’d never shown any interest in guys, back in the day—but he can’t, _won’t_ have any secrets from Bucky, least of all this. He’ll tell him, and if Bucky doesn’t feel the same, they’ll just go on as before.

 _It won’t change anything,_ he tells himself. He doesn’t need anything more from Bucky, doesn’t expect it—it’s only that holding this back feels wrong, almost like a lie. He doesn’t think Bucky will be angry, although he might feel awkward about it; they’ve both been through too much for something like this to cause much friction between them.

_Now, do it now, before you lose your nerve. Before it becomes too big to say aloud._

And perhaps he is scared, just a little, despite what he tells himself; perhaps, despite his faith in the strength of their friendship, some part of him still expects rejection. He looks at Bucky’s moon-gilded skin, and licks his dry lips.

“Bucky?”

“Mmm?” He sounds half-asleep, barely paying attention; it’s a sign of how far they’ve come in the past few days, that he can remain so bonelessly relaxed.

“You know I love you, right?”

This gets Bucky’s attention. He rolls onto his side, brushing hair out of his eyes to focus on Steve. “Yeah,” he says cautiously. “Why?”

Steve takes a breath. _It doesn’t matter if he feels the same, only that he knows. It doesn’t_ matter. “I, uh, I’m also _in_ love with you.”

There’s a long silence while Bucky digests this, and Steve fidgets. At last, Bucky asks, “What’s the difference?”

His tone is curious, not aggressive, but the question still throws Steve. He’s not sure how he expected Bucky to react, but asking for a definition wasn’t it.

“Um. I… I guess… I mean, I love you, but I’m also, uh, attracted to you?” It comes out like a question, and Steve winces at his own awkwardness. “That is, I see you, and I feel all… all warm and, um, tingly inside, and I think you’re beautiful, and I, uh, I feel like I wanna kiss you—but you don’t have to feel that way about me! I just thought I should let you know. How I, uh, feel. It doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

Again, Bucky seems to consider, frowning slightly in concentration. “You feel… tingly?”

“Yeah. Or, sort of… fluttery. Here,” Steve says, gesturing to his belly. _I was wrong_ , he thinks. _This is terrible. I’m going to die of sheer embarrassment. I should have kept my mouth shut._

“I don’t think I… feel like that,” says Bucky, after more thought. “You don’t make me feel—fluttery. Just… safe.”

“Oh,” Steve says weakly. “Well, I mean, it’s great that you feel safe with me, and obviously, it’s fine if you don’t—”

“We should try it,” says Bucky.

“What?”

He sits up abruptly, a determined jut to his chin that Steve hasn’t seen since 1945. “The kissing thing. We should try it.”

“We don’t have to,” says Steve, taken aback.

“I’m curious.” Bucky tilts his head, something like mischief hovering in the corners of his mouth, the glint of his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

Somehow, without Steve quite noticing, Bucky has closed the gap between them, kneeling close enough that their knees are nearly touching. His eyes are fathomless in the moonlight, like staring into the depths of the ocean.

 _It’s drowning all over again_ , Steve thinks, staring at him in helpless fascination. It feels like all the oxygen has left his lungs, leaving him lightheaded, his heart pounding like an Irish bodhrán.

“You said you wanted to,” Bucky breathes. His right hand is resting against Steve’s throat, fingers against his pulse, and his mouth is only inches from Steve’s.

Steve is helpless to look away. “Okay,” he rasps. “Okay.”

Bucky leans forward a little more, and Steve jerks back, suddenly nervous.

“I haven’t—I should warn you, I haven’t really done this before,” he babbles. “I mean, there were a couple times, but, um, I don’t really have any experience—”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Bucky. “I don’t either. Why are you laughing?”

“Sorry,” Steve gasps. “Sorry, it’s just—you, you dated about half the girls in Brooklyn, you, you _definitely_ have experience—”

“Well, I don’t remember it,” he says placidly. “So it doesn’t count. I don’t care, Steve. Come on.”

Steve pulls himself together with an effort. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.”

Once again, Bucky leans forward a little, and this time Steve meets him halfway, only for their noses to collide. They pull back, wincing.

“Is that normal?” Bucky asks, rubbing his nose.

“I don’t—that didn’t happen when I kissed Peggy.”

Bucky nods, taking this information into account, then says, “Okay, I have an idea. Hold still.”

“Sure thing, Buck,” says Steve, amused, but he holds himself motionless while Bucky leans in for the third time.

This time, Bucky tilts his head slightly, turning Steve’s head with the hand on the nape of his neck. This time, their lips meet, soft as petals falling onto grass.

Bucky’s mouth is warm, his lips soft and yielding, and his hand on Steve’s neck is gently possessive, guiding him without trapping him. Steve feels himself melting under his touch, savoring the smoothness of his skin, the faint taste of salt, the warm safety of being held in his arms.

Every sense seems heightened, over-sensitive to each touch, every movement, as though Bucky’s mouth and hands are charged with static electricity, so that every new sensation is a mild shock. A deep sense of _home_ , of safety and comfort and overwhelming love, settles into his bones. If this is the only kiss they ever share, if Bucky decides he doesn’t want this, if this is all they ever have… _It’s enough_ , he tells himself, pressing closer, closer, his fingers tangling in Bucky’s wild dark hair. _It’s enough to have had this, even once._

Bucky is the first to pull away, and for a moment, they just sit there, panting. Steve’s fingers are still buried in Bucky’s hair; he can’t bring himself to let go.

“Was it… how was that?” he finally asks, half-dreading the answer. He’ll try to be—he _will be_ content with whatever Bucky says, whatever he wants, but… well, he dearly wants to kiss him again.

“It was…” Bucky hesitates, licking his lips. “I liked it,” he says finally, decisively. “Steve…”

“Yeah?”

He looks down, hands twisting in his lap. “Does it matter if, if I don’t feel exactly the same way you do?”

“It… depends,” says Steve carefully. _I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me_ , he thinks, _As long as you’ll let me love you._ “How do you, um, feel?”

Again, Bucky seems to consider carefully before speaking. “I liked it,” he repeats. “I’d like—I’d like to do more. If you wanted. But…”

“No tingles?” Steve asks, finally catching on.

“No tingles,” agrees Bucky solemnly.

“But you—you care about me, right?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks upward. “More than anything.”

Heat suffuses Steve’s cheeks, but he forges ahead. “And you—you liked kissing.”

“Yes.”

“So—that’s enough for me, if—if you’re okay with, with how _I_ feel about you…”

“Yes.”

“Then—I don’t see how it matters, exactly what it feels like for either of us, as long as—as long as we want the same things.”

“ _Do_ we want the same things?”

“Well—I want to take care of you,” Steve says, still blushing furiously. “I want to kiss you, and hold your hand, and—and spend the rest of my life with you. I want to make you happy.”

Bucky sighs deeply, resting his forehead against Steve’s. “Yes,” he says. “All of that. Yes.”

For a long moment, Steve just breathes him in, savoring the way the briny smell of the ocean mixes with the scents of Bucky’s skin and hair—no longer gun oil and leather, but cotton, sandalwood, and metal. Natasha keeps sending them new soaps and shampoos to try, and Bucky takes great delight in changing them out every time he showers. Despite this, he somehow smells like himself, like home.

He gently bumps his forehead against Bucky’s, then pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. “So, um, does that mean you… I mean, would you mind kissing again?”

The smile Bucky gives him is sweet and amused and charming, so much like the boy he used to know it takes Steve’s breath away. “No, Steve. I don’t mind at all.”

“Good,” he breathes, and leans in, taking Bucky’s lips again.

It starts out close-mouthed, like before, tiny little kisses that melt into each other; then Bucky makes a noise, almost of startlement, and his hand tugs at Steve’s hair, tilting his head a little more, and his mouth opens, so Steve opens his too, and then Bucky does something interesting with his tongue and Steve loses all ability to think for a while.

They surface eventually, gasping for breath. Somewhere along the way, Steve has ended up on his back with Bucky leaning over him, elbows propped on either side of Steve’s head. It might feel threatening, except that Bucky has straddled him exactly where Steve could flip him over with a twitch of his hips, and Steve’s arms are wrapped around his back.

“I remember,” Bucky pants. “Or—my body does. Like shooting a gun.”

“You’re saying—you remember how to kiss—on _instinct_?”

“I guess? It just… felt right.” He gives Steve a worried look. “It was okay, wasn’t it?”

“ _Okay_?” repeats Steve, half-laughing. “Bucky, that was—that was _amazing._ Get back here.” He pulls him down again, eager to learn all he can from Bucky’s tongue.

 

It’s very, very late when they get back to the house, whispering and giggling and stumbling against each other like drunken teenagers. The futon feels like _theirs_ now, linen sheets and soft blankets and far too many pillows. They separate long enough to change into pajamas, then curl up close together, legs tangled, Steve’s face tucked into the crook of Bucky’s neck.

Some hollow inside him has been filled, jagged edges soothed over by Bucky’s nearness, by his love. He knows better than to think this is some kind of magic cure, for either of them, but for now, it’s enough to drift off in Bucky’s embrace.

 

He wakes to sunlight on his face and gulls calling outside their window, and gentle fingers combing through his hair. Opening his eyes, he sees Bucky’s face scant inches above his, blue-grey eyes watching him intently. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, as though he’s concentrating hard on something.

“What’re you thinking about?” Steve murmurs.

Bucky smoothes his thumb over Steve’s lips, the metal cool against his skin. “Your hair is so soft,” he says, equally quiet, like this is a secret shared between just the two of them. “And it’s got… these little streaks in it. Like sunshine.”

“Guess I’ve gotten some sun, this past week.”

“Yeah.” He raises his right hand, watching the strands slide through his fingers. “I don’t want to forget this,” he whispers.

Steve closes his eyes, pained. “I know I can’t make promises about the future,” he manages eventually. “But we’re free now, and I’m going to do my goddamned best to keep us that way.”

“I know. I will, too. But…”

He opens his eyes. “Buck?”

“Don’t let me forget?”

“I won’t,” he promises. “Not if I can help it.”

Bucky leans down, brushes a kiss to Steve’s forehead, and settles back onto his side, resuming his slow stroking of Steve’s hair. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Buck.”

For a moment, he just drifts, leaning into Bucky’s ministrations like a cat being petted. It almost startles him, how simple this is, how easy. There’s nothing in the world that could make him afraid of Bucky’s hands.

“Bucky?” he asks after a while.

“Mm?”

“Do you remember the first time I woke up? In this century, I mean.”

There’s a short pause.

“Yes.”

“Why did you…” Steve hesitates, changing his mind about what he wants to ask. “You truly didn’t recognize me, then?”

“No, I didn’t. Well, I don’t think I did,” he amends. “It was… there was something about you that made me feel… odd. And then, later, I thought—I could always tell, you know, what you were thinking, or predict what you were going to do, how you’d react. I thought—I thought you were just obvious, or that I was good at reading your body language.”

Remembering that he had thought much the same about Bucky, Steve nods. “That makes sense.”

“And I felt—protective, I guess.” A small, wistful smile. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I felt the same way,” says Steve softly. “I knew I was—falling for you, and I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.”

“You mean—before you knew who I was?”

“Long before. It started—pretty soon after you started training me. I was, um, I was already planning to get you out of there, before the mask came off.”

Bucky stares at him, with such astonishment that Steve feels bad for not telling him before. “You mean you—it wasn’t—it wasn’t just because of. Before?”

“No, Buck, of course not. I—I told you, you saved my sanity, in that place. You looked out for me. I couldn’t leave you there.”

“You could have,” Bucky corrects him. “But you didn’t.”

“Well,” says Steve awkwardly. It’s true, but he doesn’t feel he deserves praise for doing what any decent person would. He reverts to the original subject. “So if you couldn’t remember me before, then what changed? Was it just me recognizing you?”

“Not couldn’t. Didn’t.”

“What?”

Bucky sighs, propping another pillow under his head so he’s partially upright, still on his side facing Steve. “The Chair,” he says slowly. “It’s… incredibly painful. You can’t—it’s _inside your head_ , so there’s no getting away from it, and it just—hurts. And it used to be, I’d start remembering stuff within a few weeks of getting wiped, so they’d have to wipe me again, and—I couldn’t stand it anymore. So I—I trained myself not to remember. Just… walled it up, didn’t think about it. I got good at it. So they’d only wipe me after missions, and not…” He trails off.

“Oh, Bucky.”

“I know it was cowardly—”

“No, it’s not—”

“But it was just. So much easier not to remember. Not to think, or feel, or wonder…”

A suspicion begins to form in Steve’s mind. “In the stuff Natasha found about you, it said you couldn’t go on missions because you needed too much supervision,” he says slowly. “That you couldn’t make any decisions on your own. I thought it was—odd, because you always seemed perfectly capable during out training sessions.”

“Yes, well. It’s partly to do with her that it… happened that way.”

“With _Natasha_?”

He nods. “I shot her, once. She must have told you.”

“She did.”

“She asked me, while we were at the Tower. Whether I remembered.”

“And… do you?”

“Well, I do _now_.” He makes a face. “Part of the problem with—with locking everything away like that, is that it’s… it seems like I have to be reminded of it. But once I am, it’s—there, usually. Not always. Anyway. She was escorting the target out of Iran, and I was told to ambush them—kill the target, collateral damage authorized.”

“Why, though?” Steve interrupts. “I mean, why would the U.S. need to assassinate some engineer…?”

“They didn’t exactly tell me their reasons,” he says drily. “But Natasha says that she was Palestinian originally, and she was, um, pretty vocal about Palestinian rights. And Natasha was escorting her to Turkey.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“She was working on some type of new nuclear technology. One she would probably be unwilling to share with the U.S.”

“A bomb?”

Bucky’s smile is wry. “As it happens, no. Natasha said it was some type of green energy technology. But… well. I guess they didn’t want to risk it.”

Steve digests this, making a mental note to look up Palestine when he gets the chance. “But how did that… I mean, what did that have to do with you acting like…”

“I left a witness,” says Bucky simply. “I don’t know why. I don’t remember what I was thinking. But I shot the engineer, and left Natasha Romanoff alive to tell the tale. He… wasn’t happy with me.”

There’s no need for him to specify who “he” is, and Steve can imagine what type of punishments Bucky might have endured all too clearly. He takes Bucky’s hand in his, trying to convey his sympathy without words. Bucky squeezes back.

“It wasn’t exactly a _decision_ ,” he continues. “It was just—a weapon doesn’t think for itself. A soldier has to. But if I thought for myself—I could make the wrong choice. I could get punished again. So I just… didn’t. I let myself be mindless. It was easier that way.”

Steve remembers the way he had almost envied Soldat his apparent unthinkingness, the way he had longed to simply turn off all thought and feeling, go someplace where none of it could hurt him anymore. How, even with his mind intact, it had been so easy to sink into numbness, how that had seemed better than the constant pain.

“Yeah, he says hoarsely. “I get that.”

“You woke me up,” says Bucky, his eyes unbearably fond. “You kept—fighting, and I wanted you to just give in, so you wouldn’t get hurt, and at the same time… I hated the idea of it. I didn’t want you to end up like me.”

Steve presses closer, burying his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck. He doesn’t have the words to express what he feels, but as Bucky’s arm closes around him, he knows that Bucky understands, just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all would not BELIEVE how much time I wasted looking at pictures of Tony's Malibu house for a couple measly sentences of description. :P
> 
> The Hebrew in this chapter is from the second part of the Kiddush:  
>  _Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe_  
>  _who sanctifies us with his commandments, and has been pleased with us _  
>  _You have lovingly and willingly given us Your holy Shabbat as an inheritance, in memory of creation _  
>  _because it is the first day of our holy assemblies, in memory of the exodus from Egypt ___  
>  _because You have chosen us and made us holy from all peoples _  
>  _and have willingly and lovingly given us Your holy Shabbat for an inheritance _  
>  _Blessed are You, who sanctifies Shabbat (Amen) ___  
> The Kiddush is meant to be part of the ritual to bless the wine for Shabbat, so Steve is using it completely out of context-- hopefully it's clear that this is because it's the only Hebrew prayer he knows, and isn't because he thinks it's just an all-purpose prayer. I'm not Jewish myself, so if there's anything here that's either inaccurate or disrespectful, please let me know and I'll fix it.________
> 
> __________The discussion Steve and Bucky have about love is meant to portray Bucky as aromantic. This is NOT the result of trauma, but part of who he is (something that will hopefully be discussed further in the next chapter, if the characters cooperate). Again, I am not aromantic myself, so please tell me if I've made any mistakes in my portrayal of this._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
> 
> __________Many of the same discussions/protests surrounding workers' rights and income inequality that are happening now were also occurring in the 30s (and 20s, and earlier). "A Fair Day's Wage for a Fair Day's Work" was one of the slogans used in Steve's time. So, yeah, Occupy Wall St would be pretty familiar to him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
> 
> __________I lifted quite a bit of Peggy's dialogue from _CA: The Winter Soldier _, including "Even after you were gone you were still changing my life" (in the movie, it's "after Steve died") and "The world has changed... the best we can do is start over". I kind of just made up her history with SHIELD and her husband-- I haven't seen Agent Carter, and I didn't feel like researching it, so... there it is.__  
>  _  
> About the thing with the engineer: Basically, America is allied with Israel, and has gone back and forth on whether they even acknowledge the Palestinian State as an entity, so someone from Palestine would have no reason to look on the U.S. as an ally. Turkey is allied to Iran and Palestine (and Iran supports Palestine as well, and is fairly anti-Israel), and U.S.-Turkey relations have been strained since the 2000s, when Turkey refused to allow the U.S. to use one of their airbases for the invasion of Iraq. Basically, I think Ross would see a Palestinian-born nuclear engineer, who had spent time in Iran, as a threat, particularly as this would be occurring during the height of the Iraq War. And he wouldn't want Turkey to have access to nuclear technology, either. So. Enter Bucky.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	15. Mending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for self-deprecatory language/self-blame, and a character having difficulty coming to terms with their sexuality/lack thereof. Passing mention of Japanese internment camps.

_That we […]_

_In spite of being broken,_

_Because of being broken_

_May rise and build anew_

_Stand up and build anew._

_\--“Hymn of Breaking Strain”, Rudyard Kipling_

 

The chat with Peggy emboldens Steve to contact their other surviving friends. They skype Gabe, who squints at them and says, “What the hell is up with your _hair_? You look like a couple of depressed hippies!”

It makes both of them laugh, which was probably the point, and the rest of the call passes in the same lighthearted manner. Gabe asks what it’s like living with the Avengers, and whether they’ve fought any aliens yet, and if he notices that they avoid talking about anything related to Ross, he kindly doesn’t mention it.

 

Jim Morita answers their email with, _What do you mean “skype”? I live in Santa Barbara, you assholes, just come and visit._

It takes a few days for them to work up to actually picking a date, but finally Clint and Thor drive them up the coast and drop them off at the mid-sized ranch house, set back from the road amid a garden of flowers and grasses suited to the arid climate. The middle-aged woman who opens the door introduces herself as Caroline, Jim’s daughter, and leads them into the comfortable living room where Jim and his wife, Olivia, are waiting.

Jim was only twenty when Steve first met him; it’s beyond strange to see him as a ninety-year-old, with a walker standing beside his chair. For a moment, Steve doesn’t know what to say to him, or how to act.

Then Jim stands up, grinning, his arms spread wide. “Get over here, Barnes!” he shouts, and Bucky steps forward to hug him.

Steve follows suit, and then they’re all laughing and wiping their eyes, and the awkwardness disappears as though it had never been.

“Never thought I’d see the day when you two showed up on my doorstep again,” says Jim, lowering himself back into his chair. “God, you haven’t aged a day.”

“Being preserved in ice will do that to you,” Steve says drily.

“And here I thought you were gonna tell me it was healthy living.”

“Yes,” says Bucky solemnly. “A steady diet of boiled cabbage and potatoes for the first twenty years of your life really does wonders for your health.”

Jim snorts. “Think I’ll give it a pass. I don’t know how you Irish managed not to die of sheer boredom, the way you eat.”

“Hey,” says Bucky, offended. “ _He’s_ the Irish one. I’m—” he stops, falters, and looks at Steve for help.

“Romanian, mostly,” Steve says, trying not to make a big deal of it. “And I can attest that Bucky’s family’s cooking was a _lot_ more adventurous than mine.” He doesn’t mention that this was only partly because of his heritage, and was mostly because he and his ma had rarely been able to afford anything beyond the most basic of foods.

“So Barnes knows what a head of garlic looks like, in other words.”

“I’m not _that_ bad,” Steve protests, but Jim just laughs at him.

“Jim doesn’t have a leg to stand on, really,” says Olivia. “You should have seen what his cooking was like when we first met.”

“That bad, huh?”

She shakes her head. “ _Atrocious._ The first time I visited him at his apartment—”

“I still can’t believe I had the nerve to invite you there,” Jim interrupts. “The cockroaches alone would have scared any sane woman off—”

“I didn’t even notice the cockroaches, I was too busy with the _smoke_ pouring out of your _oven_ ,” she says, in an exasperated tone that does little to conceal her amusement. “I thought you were going to burn the whole building to the ground.”

Jim kisses her on the cheek. “Well, we can’t all be perfect. I improved, didn’t I?”

“Well, your cooking did, anyway,” she concedes, and winks at Steve and Bucky. “He improved in a couple of other respects, too.”

Steve can’t help laughing; their good humor is infectious, and he finds himself taking wholehearted pleasure in their easy affection. He’d thought it would be hard to see Jim in person, the young man he had known completely transformed, but instead, the visit restores a little of his faith in happy endings. Jim went through the war, and came out the other side; he and his family survived the internment camps, and had to forge a new life afterwards. Steve has read enough about the post-war years to know it can’t have been easy, for either Jim or Olivia—yet here they are, happy and whole, still enjoying life and still clearly in love, after all this time.

It gives Steve hope for the future, and, surprisingly, some form of closure with his past; as he watches Bucky laughing and joking, remembering bits and pieces with every story Jim tells, he finds himself believing that they can have this. Jim came home from the war; surely they can, too.

 

A few days later, Bucky calls Leah. Steve stays long enough to say hello to her and ask after Becca, then leaves to give them some privacy.

When he returns, Bucky is oddly pensive and downcast, something clearly on his mind.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

“She asked me if we’re coming home for Chanukah,” says Bucky softly. “It falls over Thanksgiving this year, and I guess… all the family are gonna be there, at least for the first few days, and… she said we should come. Meet everyone, and everything.”

“Do you want to go?”

“I—yes—well, yes, but… she’s still in Brooklyn, and we’re…”

“You know Tony’s happy to fly us back any time,” Steve says. “And Clint’s got a place in Bed Stuy, he probably won’t mind.”

Bucky takes a breath. “I know. And I do want to, I just…” He trails off. “Leah and Becca know me. But the rest of the family… how are they gonna feel about having a Russian assassin at the dinner table?”

“I’m pretty sure all the stuff with Russia is still classified.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know. The point is that you think they’re gonna judge you for what you did, but Bucky—you didn’t have a choice, you didn’t ask for any of this, and if they’ve done any thinking about it at all, they’ll know that.”

“I know, but… it was still me. I still have blood on my hands.”

Steve sighs. “The way I see it, you’ve got two options.”

“Do tell.”

“Either you can lock yourself away from everyone else and keep flagellating yourself for stuff you did under duress, when you weren’t in your right mind, and be miserable for the rest of your life, or you can meet your family, make your sisters really happy, and maybe even get to a place where you can help other people. I know which one I’d choose.”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment. “You know, for a supposed Catholic, you’re a terrible martyr.”

“I literally died for my country, Buck, I think I’m allowed to be a little selfish. And anyway, we were talking about you.”

“So you don’t feel guilty about any of the stuff you did, while you were… while Ross had you?”

Steve blinks at his aggressive tone, then consciously settles his shoulders, trying to keep his body language relaxed and open. “Of course I do, Bucky. I feel guilty, and ashamed, and angry about how helpless I was made to be. But I’m trying really hard to let go of that. I don’t… it doesn’t do any good, it doesn’t make me a better person. All I can do is try to do better.”

The fight seems to drain out of Bucky; he exhales, then tilts forward, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “You’ve been talking to Peggy again, huh.”

Steve puts his arms around him, pulling him in close. “Yeah. She keeps telling me to get a real therapist, instead of bugging her every time I have an existential crisis.”

“Nat said the same thing to me.”

“We should probably listen to them,” says Steve, smiling wryly.

“Yeah.” Bucky presses his forehead into the side of Steve’s neck. “I just… I did such awful things, Steve.”

“I know. I know, sweetheart. But there are better ways to atone for it than avoiding your family and making your sisters sad.”

“Wow, twist the knife, why don’t you.”

Steve kisses his hair. “Did it work?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles. “You’re right, I’ll do it.”

“What was that?”

He groans. “You’re a pain in the ass, Rogers.”

“But I’m _your_ pain in the ass.”

“God help me.”

“So we’re going?” Steve checks, just to be sure.

“ _Yes_ , oh my god. Get that smug smile off your face, you bastard.”

“I’m not _smug_ ,” Steve protests. “I’m just happy. We’re gonna see your family, Bucky. We’re gonna see Becca and Leah again.”

“You _are_ smug.” Bucky kisses him, pulls back, then seems to think better of it and kisses him again. “You’re also a sap.”

“Only for you.”

“Stop it, you goof.”

Steve bats his eyelashes, opening his mouth to say something else horrendously saccharine, but Bucky gets there first. It’s impossible to talk with Bucky’s tongue in his mouth, but, well. He doesn’t exactly mind.

 

“So I was thinking,” says Steve. It’s been two weeks since they were rescued, and they’re lying on the futon in the soft evening twilight, Bucky sprawled across his torso.

“Uh oh.”

“Har, har.” He trails his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and Bucky makes a pleased noise, digging his nose into the hollow of Steve’s throat. “I was thinking we should tell the others that, um, that we’re together.”

“I thought we didn’t need their permission.”

“We don’t.”

“Then why…?”

“Because they’re our friends, Buck. And this is—this is the kind of stuff you tell your friends.”

“Don’t they already know?” asks Bucky. “We haven’t exactly been hiding it.” He pauses. “They all know we’ve been sharing a bed,” he adds. “I’m pretty sure that has… certain connotations, even in the twenty-first century.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yes, they’ve probably all guessed by now, but they’ve been unusually polite and refrained from asking, so it’s only polite to tell them. Officially. If you want to.”

“Sure.” Bucky mouths lazily at Steve’s collarbone; they’ve discovered that Steve doesn’t really like being bitten, but he could spend hours just letting Bucky kiss on him. “Then we should tell Jim and Gabe, too.”

“I don’t know, Buck, they might be—ah! – a little old-fashioned about it.” Steve tilts his head to give Bucky better access to his throat. “I don’t know how they’d react.”

“Only one way to find out. Anyway, I bet they’ve figured it out. Peggy did.”

“Maybe. That tickles.”

“Oh, does it?” asks Bucky innocently, and sticks his tongue in Steve’s ear.

Steve isn’t proud of the noise he makes, half a giggle and half a shriek, as he tries to wriggle away, pushing ineffectually at Bucky’s shoulders.  “Aagh! Get off me, you menace! What was that for?”

Bucky is laughing too hard to answer, pinning Steve’s arms above his head and attempting to lick him again while Steve struggles.

“You—you jerk—you—” Steve jerks his hips in an attempt to throw Bucky off of him, but Bucky retaliates by tickling him, and he collapses in helpless laughter.

Gracious in victory, Bucky lets go his arms, bending down to rub his nose against Steve’s. “I win,” he says smugly.

“You’re a cad and a cheat,” says Steve. “I don’t like you anymore.”

“Aww, Stevie, don’t be mad.” Bucky kisses him on the lips, open-mouthed and sloppy. “You just looked so serious, I had to.”

Steve’s retort dies on his lips. With Bucky plastered against him, he can feel every muscle and contour of his body—unlike him, Bucky sleeps shirtless—and so he can feel that, sometime in their brief tussle, Bucky has grown hard. He clears his throat.

“Um, Bucky?”

Something in his tone must betray his discomfort, because Bucky’s expression immediately turns serious, eyes sharpening on Steve’s face. “What?”

“You, uh… you’re… a little…” Face burning, Steve makes a gesture towards the source of the problem.

Bucky’s expression goes from confused to understanding to embarrassed in the blink of an eye; he quickly rolls off of Steve entirely, yanking the blanket up to his waist as he goes.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I wasn’t trying to—to…”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Steve quickly. “I just, um…” This conversation, he decides, will be much easier without eye contact. He rolls onto his back. “Is that, um, something you want?” he asks the ceiling. “Sex, I mean?”

“…Maybe?” Bucky says uncertainly. “I, uh, I remember liking it… before, so… probably.” There’s a pause. “Do _you_ want to?”

Steve tries to ignore the sense of panic squeezing his lungs at the idea of it. “It could be fun, right?” he says, aware his tone lacks conviction. “I mean, it’s supposed to be, um, really… that is, a lot of people seem to, uh. Enjoy it.”

He can feel Bucky shift position, but keeps his own eyes stubbornly fixed on the ceiling. It’s a very nice ceiling, with wooden panels in a sort of herring-bone pattern, and it doesn’t care that his face is hot enough to fry an egg on just now.

“Then… you haven’t…?”

Steve shakes his head. This would probably be a good place to make a joke, or some self-deprecating remark about being a ninety-year-old virgin, but he can’t seem to make his voice work. It’s stupid for his guts to be twisting like a basketful of snakes at the mere idea of sex—this is _Bucky_ , after all, Bucky whom he loves and trusts, whom he _knows_ would never hurt him—but his body doesn’t seem to know that.

“Do you want to?” Bucky repeats.

He swallows down the nausea clogging his throat and attempts a casual tone. “Yeah, if you want to.” _It’s Bucky_ , he tells himself firmly. _It’ll be fine. Other people do this all the time, there’s no reason to be so skittish about it._

“Steve,” says Bucky.

“Do you want to, um, now, or…?”

“Steve.” He touches Steve’s shoulder, and Steve flinches.

“Hey, sweetheart, look at me.” Bucky’s voice is soft, concerned, and Steve loathes himself more in that moment than he ever has. Bucky shouldn’t have to put up with this, with his weakness and his stupid hangups.

“Look at me,” he repeats.

Reluctantly, Steve turns his head.

Bucky is sitting up, skin glowing softly in the lamplight, his eyes wide and worried. “You’ve never flinched from me before,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry,” says Steve. “I didn’t mean to, I just… I wasn’t…”

“I’m not mad, sweetheart,” Bucky says. “I just want to know what’s going on in that head of yours that’s got you all twisted up.”

Steve had thought he couldn’t get any more embarrassed, but he can _feel_ his skin attempting new shades of red. He squeezes his eyes shut, as though that will make this easier. “I’m sure if we tried it, it’d be fine,” he tries.

“Steve,” says Bucky, in his patented _cut the bullshit_ voice. He learned it from his mother, and it works every damn time.

“I just don’t want to,” Steve admits in a rush. “I _want_ to want to, and if there’s anyone I’d want to—to do it with, it’d be you, but just the idea of it makes me feel—I just… don’t want to. I’m sorry,” he adds. “I thought I could, if you wanted to, but you hadn’t expressed any interest and I—”

“Don’t want to,” Bucky finishes for him. “Steve, you don’t have to. _We_ don’t have to. If it makes you uncomfortable, then there’s no reason why we should.”

Steve opens his eyes, searching for some sign of deception in Bucky’s face. He doesn’t find it. “But you—just now, when we…”

“So my body has a certain reaction,” Bucky says with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean we have to do anything about it. Anyway, you don’t care that I can’t love like you do, so why should I care that you can’t want like I do? We’re neither of us what you’d call normal; it’s a little late to worry about that now.”

“But if I’m depriving you—”

“Steve, you bonehead, you’re not depriving me of _anything_.” Bucky’s voice is all affectionate exasperation, with no trace of recrimination or even disappointment in it. “I wasn’t even _thinking_ about it until you brought it up—I don’t even know if I’d like it now. I might not.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “Can I hold you?”

“Please,” says Steve, and Bucky wraps him up in his arms, warm and solid and reassuring.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.

“Go ahead.”

“Did you always feel like that, or is it because of something Ross did?”

For a moment, Steve is almost tempted to say _yes_ , to blame it all on trauma and not on his inability to be normal in any way. It’s only a fleeting thought; he doesn’t want to lie to Bucky, and besides, Bucky already knows how weird he is. His aversion to sex is just one more item on a long list.

“I think I’ve always been this way,” he says at last. “I, um, I was always pretty awkward around girls, but it… it mostly didn’t come up. I just didn’t take much interest in it, and there was always other stuff that was more pressing. I guess I just assumed that with the right person, I’d feel different.”

Bucky’s voice is tentative. “Do you think, maybe, with a woman…?”

“No, Bucky.” Steve lets out a breath, reaching up to cup the back of Bucky’s head with his hand. “ _You’re_ my right person. Never doubt that. I just—I guess that part of me is broken, just like my hearing or my lungs, only the serum didn’t fix it.”

“Maybe it wasn’t something that needed fixing,” says Bucky.

 

The next morning, they tell Thor and Clint that they’re in a relationship.

Clint looks bemused. “I thought you were already together?”

“Yes,” says Steve. “But we wanted to tell you officially.”

“Oh.” He considers. “Wait, so were you two a thing like, in the forties, or…?”

“No, we, uh… we just recently—”

“Congratulations!” says Thor, beaming. “Indeed, it is wonderful to see two warriors such as yourselves finding happiness in each other. We should have a toast to celebrate!”

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” Steve begins, but Bucky elbows him to silence, and Clint interrupts him with, “Oooh, I’ve got just the thing!”

Which is how they end up drinking some kind of champagne-cocktail on the beach at ten o’clock in the morning. Of the four of them, Clint is the only one who can get drunk—which he promptly does—but the drink puts them all in a giddy mood, and there’s something intensely satisfying about lying with his head in Bucky’s lap, watching Thor attempt to catch fish via lightning-bolt while Clint laughs hysterically.

To all of their surprise—including Thor—Thor does manage to catch a large halibut, and with the help of some Youtube tutorials, they even manage to clean it. The day ends with what Thor refers to as a “feast of celebration”, at which Clint is still inclined to be sleepy and giggly, Thor attempts to make a ballad which rhymes “undying devotion” with “North Atlantic Ocean” and doesn’t improve from there, and Bucky laughs more than he has since the war.

It’s a good day.

 

Jim is offended that they (a) didn’t tell him earlier and (b) thought he didn’t already know. Gabe just says “Get it!” and cackles a lot. Steve had told Peggy and Natasha when they first decided to make a go of it, and Bucky had mentioned it to Leah during their video call, but they tell Peggy again anyway—she likes to have good news repeated, just in case she forgets.

 

“ _No_ ,” says Tony, when Steve tells him. “ _Seriously_? Are you pulling my leg right now? You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking,” says Steve steadily. “Bucky and me are—are going steady.”

“But you’re straight,” Tony says, looking honestly bewildered. “You’re _Captain America._ ”

Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m biromantic,” he says, because he’d had enough foresight to google the terms before coming out to everyone. _Queer_ may have been comprehensive enough in the forties, but nowadays the labels are a lot more specific. “And Captain America’s just a propaganda bit, Tony, we’ve talked about this.”

“Biromantic,” says Tony, predictably latching onto the part that Steve least wants to discuss. “But not bisexual? So does that mean you’re like, heterosexual, or—”

“Asexual,” Steve says, quickly, ripping off the metaphorical bandaid. “That means I—”

“I know what it means, Cap.” Tony pauses, peering at him. “Wait, is that why you freak out about people touching you?”

“I _freak out_ when people start feeling me up without my consent,” he says pointedly. “Funnily enough, being a prisoner and a medical experiment can make you a little weird about personal space.”

“Right, right.” Tony makes a face. “Sorry. That was rude.”

Steve is so surprised by this admission that he’s momentarily silenced, and Tony rushes on without waiting for a reply.

“Anyway, what I meant, what I should have said first, is congratulations. I’m glad you—I mean, I’m assuming this makes you both happy—”

“Yes,” Steve assures him. “Very.”

“Okay, good, that’s good, that’s great, well, Mazel Tov to the both of you, um, let me know if you need anything…”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “You’ve already given us so much, Tony. But… thank you.”

 

He calls Bruce next.

“You’re gay?” asks Bruce, surprised. “I thought…” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Somehow, I got the wrong impression, I guess.”

“I’m biromantic, actually,” says Steve, finding it easier now that he’s been through this with Tony. “And asexual.”

Bruce blinks. “Really? Cool! Solidarity, and, uh, all that.” He raises his fist in a half-hearted salute.

“Solidarity?”

“I’m ace/aro,” he says, blushing faintly. “Or, uh, on that spectrum, anyway.”

“Oh,” says Steve. “Guess we’ve got something else in common, then.”

“Guess we have.” Bruce grins at him, his serious demeanor lightening for once. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

“And here I thought it was my genius for chemistry,” Steve deadpans.

“That too. Seriously, though, Steve—congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”

He ducks his head, warm from head to toe. “Thanks, Bruce. I’m—I’m happy, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really go into the subject of Japanese internment camps in this chapter, but I think it's an important thing to acknowledge. Jim Morita would have been risking his life on the front while his family was imprisoned by the American government under pretty grim conditions, and if that's not heartbreaking, I don't know what is. Especially since the American Legion was actually proposing that all Japanese immigrants in America should be deported if the U.S. won the war.
> 
> Steve's experience of being asexual is similar to my own, but there's no one way to be ace! Bruce being grey ace/aro is mostly based on the fact that he seems very uncomfortable with "romantic" relationships in canon (at least in AoU onward), and I think that could stem from both his Hulk issues and his perception that what others might be seeking from him isn't something he's comfortable with offering; he's actually the only character I consistently headcanon as ace/aro.
> 
> Also, Tony's not aphobic, just tactless. As usual. :P
> 
> This fic just keeps getting longer and longer, but I swear the end is in sight! Thanks for all your comments! <3


	16. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought I was almost done, and then there kept being more to say... this thing is a monster! Thanks for all your patience and encouragement. :)
> 
> Content warnings: discussions of past trauma, some body horror related to Steve's brand, mentions of racism/Japanese internment camps.

_And you were given this swiftness, not for haste_   
_Nor chiefly that you may go where you will,_   
_But in the rush of everything to waste,_   
_That you may have the power of standing still—_   
_Off any still or moving thing you say._   
_Two such as you with such a master speed_   
_Cannot be parted nor be swept away_   
_From one another once you are agreed_   
_That life is only life forevermore_   
_Together wing to wing and oar to oar._

_\--“The Master Speed”, Robert Frost_

 

Three days later, they’re both startled awake by the blare of loud music. Their reactions are automatic: Bucky curls into a ball, raising his metal arm above his head to shield himself, and Steve launches off the bed and comes up in a fighting crouch, staring around wildly. It takes him a moment to realize it’s just his phone, with Tony’s name flashing on the display.

Sinking back onto the bed, he glares balefully at the too-bright screen. It may be seven am in New York, but it seems like at this point Tony should be used enough to the time difference to realize it’s still ungodly early in California.

“Just answer the damn thing,” Bucky grumbles, pulling the pillow over his head.

With a put-upon sigh, Steve picks up. “This better be important.”

“Steve,” says Tony. “Listen, I had to call you right away, I couldn’t let you hear it from anyone else—”

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, now alert to a new emergency.

“Is Barnes there?”

“Yeah, he’s here. Tony—”

“Put him on speaker.”

He puts the phone on speaker, sharing a worried look with Bucky. “Okay. What’s wrong?”

“Fury called me. I didn’t give him a straight answer, I wanted to talk to you first, I knew you’d be pissed—”

“Spit it out, Tony,” Steve interrupts impatiently. “It’s four o’clock in the goddamn morning, so _what’s going on_?”

“SHIELD wants me to reverse engineer the memory-removal apparatus,” says Tony in a rush. “They’ve got that damned Chair in with the other evidence.”

There’s a short, shocked, pause, then both speak at the same time, Steve’s growled _“_ WHAT?” overlapping Bucky’s frantic “ _No!_ ”

“I’m afraid so,” Tony says grimly. “He said SHIELD thinks the apparatus could have other uses—for example, helping veterans with PTSD.”

“How the fuck is it supposed to do that?” demands Steve.

“Well, the theory is, if you remove the traumatic memories…”

“It won’t work,” Bucky says. He’s shaking, arms wrapped around himself, knees tucked up to his chin. “It doesn’t _remove_ the memories, it suppresses them. It doesn’t—it doesn’t take away the stuff that happened. You still have the reactions, but you don’t know why. You can’t do that to someone else,” he says, pleading. “Please, you can’t—you can’t let them.”

“I’m not planning to,” replies Tony. “But if I refuse, Fury’ll find someone else to do it. I don’t know what to do. Steve— _Cap_ —you’ve gotta come up with something. I don’t know what to do.”

Steve puts his arm around Bucky, pulling him close, and takes a deep breath, thinking. “At the Geneva Convention,” he says slowly, “certain weapons were outlawed, because even in war, the consequences of using them were too horrific. Even when war broke out again in Europe, gas was never used on the front the way it was in the first war. For the most part, everyone abided by that rule.”

“Thanks for the history lesson, Cap, but…”

“It needs to be outlawed,” says Steve. “Use of memory-removal technology should be considered torture. An unpardonable offense, a war-crime.”

“Okay, yeah, I totally agree, but in the meantime…”

“Did you record the conversation?” asks Bucky.

“Yes, but…”

“Save it somewhere safe. Record the next conversation, where you lay out exactly what Fury asked you to do, and your reasons for refusing. Tell him that it doesn’t work; tell him that there is no way to use it for anything positive. It was meant as a torture device, and a method of coercion, and that’s all it will ever be.”

“Okay, what then?”

“Go on television,” says Steve. “You like doing that, right?”

“Oh, fuck you, Rogers.”

“Go on television,” Bucky repeats. “Tell the world that this is wrong, that it’s happening. Make it impossible for them to hush up. Get your lawyers, your propaganda people—”

“They’re called a PR team, Barnes,” says Tony, but there’s amusement in his voice, and beyond that, a sense of rising interest.

“Whatever. Have them figure out exactly how to play it—how to make it sound like you’re not fighting with SHIELD, you’re just…”

“Concerned,” Steve puts in. “A concerned citizen, worried that this dangerous equipment could be put to bad uses. And while you’re at it, you can make an appeal to the U.N., to outlaw it for good.”

“There’ll be a Change.org petition going around within seconds, I’m sure,” says Tony drily. “Okay, fine, lawyers and PR lackeys it is. Any other bright ideas, while I’m at it?”

“Not at the moment. Call back at a reasonable hour, maybe I’ll have something better for you. How about you, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“That’s all we got, Tony. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay, okay, go back to sleep, Captain Grumpus. I’m only trying to save the world, probably. Again.”

“Thank you, Tony,” says Bucky sincerely. “I… I appreciate this. Truly.”

“See? _He_ appreciates me. You ever want me to sweep you off your feet, Bucky-Bear, you just say the word—”

“Bye, Tony,” says Steve, and hangs up. He finds his own hands are shaking, and holds his arms out to Bucky, needing comfort just as much as he’s offering it.

Bucky burrows into him immediately, hooking his legs around Steve’s waist for good measure. He’s trembling so hard his teeth are chattering. “F-fuck,” he mutters, grinding his forehead against Steve’s clavicle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“We won’t let them,” Steve says brokenly. “We won’t let it happen again, not to anyone.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just clings to him like a baby koala. Steve shuts his eyes and buries his face in Bucky’s hair, breathing him in, a reminder that whatever happens, right now they are together, they are safe. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, _Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus_ …”

Eventually, they lie down, still holding each other close, but neither of them gets any more sleep that night.

 

“So I talked to Fury,” says Tony, when they video-call him midway through the morning. “Told him I wouldn’t, told him he shouldn’t, etc. He said he’d ‘take my concerns into consideration’, so. I don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s gonna go ahead with it?”

Tony looks uncertain, fiddling with a socket wrench. He’s clearly using one of the screens in his lab to talk to them, which means they have an unfiltered view of the absolute mess that is his worktable. “I mean, when he said he’d consider it… I think he meant it, I just don’t know what he’ll decide. He’s not—I mean, he’s not a bad guy, just…”

“You’d be surprised what people who aren’t bad are capable of,” says Bucky softly.

For a moment, the shadows in Tony’s eyes seem to deepen. “Not _that_ surprised.”

“No,” Bucky says after a moment. “I guess you wouldn’t be.”

 Tony makes a quick gesture, as if physically waving away this reminder of the past. “Anyway, the point is, I don’t want to do anything too aggressive until we know for sure what his take is gonna be. I feel like if you talked to him, maybe he’d see reason. I mean, you’re a lot more persuasive than me, Cap, and you’re like, the golden boy—and Barnes can add on the trauma guilt…”

“Okay,” says Steve. “We’ll talk to him. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, if his mind is made up…”

“It can’t hurt. Like I said, he’s a decent person I think, but he just… he’s all about the greater good, you know? And I think… sometimes that gets in the way of…”

“Human rights?” Steve finishes. He’s thinking of newspapers talking about “The Japanese problem”, and Jim Morita risking his life while his family lived behind barbed-wire fences in Wyoming. It’s not the same thing, exactly, but it’s close enough to leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“I was going to say ‘individual freedoms’, but sure. Look, you talk to him, see if you can do better. What I want to know is, should we go ahead with the rest of the plan?”

“I think we can still proceed,” says Steve, after a moment of thought. “Maybe hold onto the recordings for now, and talk to your PR people about how to raise the issue without making Fury look like a bad guy. You’re right—we don’t want to antagonize him if we can avoid it.”

“I can’t believe _I’m_ suggesting caution. I must be getting soft in my old age.”

Steve smirks. “You said it, not me.”

“Har, har. Listen… are you two ready to come back to New York yet? With the legal stuff heating up, and this thing with Fury, it would just be… helpful to have you not three thousand miles away. Plus Helen’s in town, and she agreed to stop here if you want, instead of putting you on a waitlist that’s like three meters long.”

“Helen?”

“Helen Cho. You know, the skin-grafting lady?”

“Oh. Yeah. We…” Steve glances at Bucky. “We’d been talking about maybe heading back east towards the end of November, but…”

“We can go sooner,” says Bucky. “Whenever is convenient.”

“I can have the plane out to you in a couple of days. That work for you?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, great. I’ll see you soon, then. I’m gonna go terrorize my PR staff, Ciao!”

When Tony hangs up, Steve turns to Bucky with a sigh. “I guess the vacation is over.”

“It was good while it lasted.”

He takes Bucky in his arms, the gesture already a familiar one even after so short a time together. “When all this is over,” he murmurs, “We should buy a house. Someplace in the country, maybe. Where we can just _be._ ”

“Dunno if we’re really made for the white-picket-fence life, Stevie.”

“So? I was made to be a skinny, sick asthmatic who died at thirty,” says Steve. “We deserve a little peace.”

There’s a pause, and he can feel Bucky wanting to protest, but in the end he just sighs, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “I’d like that,” he says quietly. The tone of his voice tells Steve he still doesn’t believe it’s possible.

“We’ll make it happen,” promises Steve. “We can have this. We _can_.”

 

Colonel Rhodes flies Tony’s quinjet out for them. Steve is wary at first; despite Rhodes’s casual jeans and t-shirt and insistence on being called _Jim_ , he can’t shake the feeling that this is an Authority Figure, come to check up on them. Bucky, fortunately, is too busy worrying about the upcoming plane journey to care much about the rank of their guest, so at least there’s only one of them edging around Rhodes like a stray cat.

It turns out, though, that Rhodes—Jim—has a knack for putting people at their ease. He smiles and jokes and helps them pack their things (they’ve somehow accumulated enough clothes, books, and other things to warrant three cardboard boxes), and competes with Clint to find the best items for a giant pillow nest in the passenger compartment of the jet. When they get onboard, before they’ve even taken off, Jim pulls out a pack of cards and says, “A little birdie told me you could teach me to play pinochle.”

It’s hard not to like him after that.

 

They arrive to find the other Avengers assembled on the landing pad, with the addition of a tall, strawberry-blonde woman who must be the famed Virginia Potts, two short, dark-haired women whom Steve doesn’t know, and a teenage girl with a yellow dog by her side.

“The Eagle has landed!” shouts Tony, striding forward. “The boys are back in town! The—”

Steve hugs him, almost surprised at how glad he is to see him. “Hi, Tony.”

For a moment, Tony stiffens, and Steve begins to draw back, worried that he overstepped—then Tony says, “You know what, fuck it, screw toxic masculinity, right?” and tightens his grip, finishing with a smacking kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his ear.

“You okay, Tony?” Steve asks, laughing, and Ms. Potts steps forward.

“He may or may not have had a few drinks already this evening. You’ll have to excuse—”

“Nope, no excuses,” says Tony. “Get over here, Buckaroo.”

Bucky, already haggard from the journey, looks half-alarmed and half-pleased, but cautiously hugs Tony back.

“You must be Ms. Potts,” says Steve. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Call me Pepper, please. I—”

Whatever she was about to say is drowned out by Thor bellowing, “JANE!” and crossing the tarmac in a few quick strides. One of the dark-haired women meets him halfway, and he picks her up as effortlessly as a child, kissing her deeply.

The other woman wolf-whistles. “GET IT, Janey!”

“They’re all children,” says Natasha, appearing at Steve’s side. “It’s good to have you back, Steve.”

“It’s good to _be_ back,” he says, again surprised to find that it’s the complete truth. Malibu was exactly what they needed, but he hadn’t realized until just now how much he missed the rest of the team. “How are you? Is everything going okay?”

“As well as can be expected. We can talk about that later.” She squeezes his bicep, then moves on to Bucky, who looks dazed and overwhelmed in the face of all the commotion.

Then Bruce is there, shaking Steve’s hand with a, “Good to see you, man,” that Steve returns with a wide smile.

“Hi, Bruce.”

“I’m working on a new way to explode stuff. You should come hang out in the lab soon.”

“I will.”

Clint is on the ground, having his own enthusiastic reunion with the dog. The teenager catches Steve’s eye, smiles, and waves, but doesn’t approach him; he’s about to ask Bruce who she is when there’s a burst of raucous laughter, and he turns to see Thor carrying both the dark-haired women—Jane on his front, the other clinging to his back—inside. That seems to be the cue to move, and the rest follow, Bucky tucking himself under Steve’s arm as they go.

It feels like a true homecoming, in a way Steve hadn’t expected, and he finds himself swallowing a lump in his throat as the others jostle and laugh and overcrowd the giant elevator—all welcoming, all friends, all part of his team, whether he knows them or not.

When they reach the common room, Tony pours drinks for everyone, and Steve finally finds out who the other women are—“Janey” is Dr. Jane Foster, astrophysicist and Thor’s girlfriend; her friend is Darcy Lewis, who’s also her lab assistant; and the teenager is Kate Bishop, who was apparently watching Clint’s dog for him. There appears to be a larger story to this—Clint keeps calling her “Hawkeye” and she calls him “Hawkguy”—but Steve has yet to hear it, and isn’t sure he wants to ask.

There’s food—including Kosher options for Bucky, which makes both of them inexplicably teary-eyed—and someone puts on music, and Clint, Kate, Natasha, and Darcy start a fierce competition of something they refer to as “water-pong”, which involves throwing a ping-pong ball into plastic cups of water. For some reason, this makes all of them very giggly, and they keep making Clint take shots of ginger ale while he grumbles about being “an adult, unlike _some_ of you.”

“Screw you, Barton, I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen,” says Kate, and Steve gives up on understanding the conversation.

At last, they go to their own suite. Tony’s set aside an entire _floor_ for them, which Steve feels like he should protest on principle, but since having so much space goes a long way toward making him feel not-trapped, he doesn’t. The place is mostly open, like Natasha’s floor, with a couple of extra bedrooms and bathrooms, and there’s a futon in the living room exactly like the one in Malibu.

The master bedroom is huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows, the bed made-up and ready for them with the blankets and pillows they’d brought on the plane. Their books are put away on the shelf, along with others—Steve’s heart goes all soft when he realizes that all the books he’d read at the Avengers Compound are here, too. The fire opal box from Thor is sitting on the nightstand, the snake plant on the windowsill, and the file from Natasha on the bookshelf.

There are new things; too, including group of framed photos on top of the dresser: one of the Howlies, another of Bucky’s family circa 1938, one of Peggy, and a photograph of Sarah and Joseph Rogers on their wedding day—the only picture Steve had had of them, and one which he’d assumed he’d never see again.

“Hey, Steve, c’mere,” says, Bucky, and Steve turns to see him examining the items on the small table near the window. There’s a spider plant in a pot, a basket with hair products and fancy soaps and lotions nestled in tissue paper, a mug with a print of Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ on it, a large box of deluxe extra-dark cocoa mix, a boxed set of books entitled _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , and a card with “For Bucky” written on the front.

Bucky wordlessly hands the card to Steve, who reads:

_Dear Bucky:_

_We wanted you to have some things of your own, so got you these. Welcome home._

_-Natasha, Pepper, Thor, Bruce, Clint, Tony_

“Wow,” says Steve, getting a little choked up. “That’s… that’s really nice, Buck.”

Bucky is staring at the gifts, bewildered. “Why would they do all that for me? Especially… I mean, they’ve done so much for me, already.”

It’s somewhat inconceivable to Steve that someone _wouldn’t_ want to do nice things for Bucky, but he tries to look at it objectively. “I guess they must like you,” he says.

“Half of them don’t even _know_ me.”

“They did something similar for me, when they first found out about the real situation with Ross,” says Steve. “At the time, I figured they just felt guilty, but now… I think they wanted me to feel… welcome. And, I suppose, it’s the same way with you. They might not know you well, but they still care.”

Bucky turns the mug around and around in his hands, eyes fixed on the cheerful pattern. “They’re kind,” he says abruptly. “Your friends. They’re—kind.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I… I got lucky, I guess.”

Putting the mug down, he leans up against Steve’s chest, kissing his neck in the way that never fails to make Steve shiver. “Let’s go to bed, doll,” he murmurs in a husky voice. “I’m worn out.”

And they do.

 

The next morning, Steve follows Bucky to their new kitchen, only to run straight into his back when he stops abruptly.

“Ow—Buck, what the—”

“Stark is in there,” Bucky hisses.

Steve peers around his shoulder to see a familiar dark head bent over a tablet on the kitchen island. There’s a massive cup of coffee steaming next to him, and now that Steve is paying attention, he can smell a warm, bready aroma.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Let’s see what he wants.”

Stepping around Bucky, he enters the kitchen, noting that the oven is on as he does. Tony has clearly been here awhile, and Steve is disturbed both by the intrusion—and the lack of privacy it represents—and the fact that neither of them heard him.

“Tony?” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Man with a Plan!” says Tony, perking up. “Finally! I thought you old people were supposed to believe in early to bed, early to rise—”

“Did you even _go_ to bed?” Steve asks, taking in Tony’s rumpled hair, stubble, and yesterday’s clothing.

Tony waves a dismissive hand. “I had a power nap. Take a seat, Cap, Barnsicle, we’ve got things to do, people to see…”

“You broke into our home at—how long have you been here?”

“Eight,” says Tony. “Anyway, it’s not breaking in if I own it.”

Steve folds his arms. “Tony,” he says with badly-tried patience. “I realize that you own everything in this building, including the clothes we’re wearing, but I thought you’d have the basic courtesy not to rub our faces in it.”

There’s a moment where Tony just stares at him, slack-jawed; then full comprehension seems to set in, and his eyes go wide. “Ohmygod,” he says. “Jesus, Steve, that’s not what I meant, I just—I’ve been thinking about this all night and I didn’t want to wait, and, look, I even brought you cinnamon rolls, I swear I respect your privacy…”

“Next time, knock,” Bucky advises, strolling over to inspect the oven with a predator’s grace. “You’re lucky we weren’t naked.”

Tony frowns. “I thought Steve was ace?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Tony opens his mouth, no doubt to ask more invasive personal questions, and Steve hastens to cut him off.

“Look, Tony, it’s fine, just please have some consideration for our privacy next time, okay? What did you need to discuss with us, anyway?”

“I wanted to go over our pitch to Fury—should he be doing that?”

Steve follows his gaze to Bucky, who has pulled out the tray of cinnamon rolls with his metal hand. “I dunno, are they done yet?”

“The timer was about to go off,” says Bucky. “Anyway, they’re brown on the bottom, see?”

“I meant with the _arm_ ,” says Tony.

“Oh, it can withstand higher temperatures than that,” Bucky assures him.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it _hurt_?”

“Do you think I’d be doing this if it hurt?”

“Hey, I don’t know you, I don’t know your life, you could be one of those super stoic pain-makes-you-stronger types—”

Steve rubs his temples. It is far too early in the morning for Tony’s stream-of-consciousness prattle, especially after the stresses of yesterday. He tunes out the argument in favor of acquiring his own cup of coffee, and a glass of orange juice from the fridge.

“… Rogers, are you even listening to me?”

“Of course,” says Steve vaguely, now assembling eggs, cheese, and assorted vegetables on the counter. Cinnamon rolls are all very well, but he and Bucky need an awful lot of protein to keep them going. “Are you still talking about Bucky’s arm?”

“Well, yes,” Tony admits. “But you can’t expect me to just _ignore_ it when he just—does that! It’s—okay, so what about other sensations? Like, say, punching something, does it hurt, or…?”

“I thought we were talking about Fury,” says Steve, rummaging the cupboards for a skillet. “And the, uh, memory removal.”

“We are! I can multitask—look, see, I had my PR staff write up, you know, a game plan, basically…” He shoves the tablet over to Steve, who positions it so Bucky can read it too.

It’s about what he expected—the talking points they’d already discussed, plus the legal implications of their suggestions.

“This look doable, Buck?” he murmurs.

Bucky nods. He’s got a smear of frosting on his upper lip, and Steve wipes it off with his thumb, resisting the urge to follow up with a kiss.

“Game plan,” he says, a little louder. “We still need to eat breakfast and get dressed. You’d better set the call up, Tony. We can be ready in, I don’t know, forty-five minutes?”

“Make it an hour,” says Tony. “I’m gonna set up a screen in your office, make it all official-looking.”

Steve blinks. “Office?”

“The room at the end of the hall, on the right. With the desk in it.”

“We haven’t looked in there yet,” confesses Steve. “I just assumed it was another bedroom.”

“Nope, office. But I hadn’t gotten around to setting up your computer or anything yet, so… I’m gonna go do that.”

“Thanks,” says Steve, a little uncertainly. He’d sort of been hoping Tony would give them a little time to be alone, to adjust to everything before they face Fury, but that’s clearly not about to happen.

 _He’s trying to be nice,_ he reminds himself. _He’s doing you a favor._

“No problem!” says Tony, bright and oblivious, and bustles off to the other room.

Steve sighs, and goes back to the half-assembled omelet. “Hey Bucky, grate the cheese for me, will you?”

 

“I understand your concerns, Captain,” Fury says, an hour and fifteen minutes later. “But think of what we could _do_ with this technology! Help trauma victims. Rehabilitate criminals. Keep intelligence secrets safe…”

“It’s unethical,” says Steve sharply. “Messing with people’s minds—that’s—that’s a _violation_.”

“We would, of course, gain consent first—”

“By what means?” Steve demands.

Fury gives him a cold look. “SHIELD are not the bad guys here, Rogers.”

“You sure as hell aren’t the good guys, if you’re considering this,” Steve fires back.

“Captain, I’m sorry, but you’re willfully ignoring the positives…”

“It won’t work.” Bucky’s voice is soft, but he gets both of their attention immediately. “It’s not meant to be used on a normal human,” he says evenly. “Anyone without our regenerative capabilities would die. I’ve _seen_ it.”

He shudders, and Steve places a hand on his knee, out of sight of the webcam. Bucky rests his hand atop Steve’s, takes a breath, and continues.

“Even if you could modify it… it doesn’t remove memories, it buries them. You still have the same instincts, the same reactions… you just don’t know _why_. I—I was terrified of heights, but I didn’t know why. They trained me to ignore it, but. The fear was always there. I was always… always thinking I’d fall. I didn’t know why, until Steve told me the way I’d—what happened to me.”

For the first time, Fury’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Barnes,” he says quietly. “I can’t even imagine…”

“You can’t,” says Bucky hoarsely. “It’s why I’m telling you. That thing is made for torture. It’s not—it can _never_ be something good, it can’t _help_. You have to get rid of it.”

“The technology’s in the world,” Fury says. “The Russians have had it for decades—”

“Because it went so well the last time we had an arms race with Russia,” Steve mutters.

Fury tilts his head, conceding the point. “Still, we cannot be so naïve as to think it will simply go away just because SHIELD chooses not to use it.”

“No,” says Steve, “but we can outlaw it, get other countries to agree not to use it. That way, if someone _does_ use it, there’s no grey area. It’s a crime, it’s—it’s unpardonable. Like Tony’s been saying.”

Fury’s mouth twitches. “I wondered where he’d gotten that idea from. Alright, Captain, Sergeant, you’ve made your point. We still need it as evidence for the trial, but once that’s through… if you like, I’ll let you destroy it personally.”

“You… will?” asks Bucky, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You have my word,” Fury says. “And since I’m sure you’re recording this, you can hold me accountable. As for your U.N. scheme… well, I can’t say that I’m optimistic, but stranger things have happened. You remember Maria Hill?”

Steve nods, a little dazed.

“She’ll be your liaison for the illegalization effort. Expect her to be in touch.”

“I… okay.” Steve swallows down the _thank you_ that wants to escape; he doesn’t owe gratitude, not for this, not when using it was Fury’s idea in the first place. “Why?” he asks instead.

Fury gives him an unimpressed look. “Because I occasionally have the grace to admit when I’m wrong, Captain. Is that all?”

Steve is still reeling from conversational whiplash. “Uh…”

“That’s all,” answers Bucky, quiet but firm. “Thank you, Director. For listening.”

“Nice talking to you boys,” Fury says; it’s hard to tell from his tone whether he’s being sarcastic or not. “We’ll be in touch.”

The screen goes blank.

“You have to give it to him,” says Tony, from the doorway. “He sure knows how to make an exit.”

Steve slumps in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “Well, that’s over, at least.”

“Congratulations,” says Tony. “You’ve signed up for a new crusade.”

“God help us,” Bucky sighs. “Do you think he’ll follow through?”

“He’d better,” says Steve darkly.

“Are you kidding? Between your righteous fury and his sob story, you had him eating right out of your hands. I’ve _never_ heard Fury concede that quick, and I mean _never._ You guys are like the dynamic duo of guilt-tripping.”

“Catholic,” Steve says, waving his hand. “It’s a learned skill.”

Bucky frowns. “I wasn’t just making that up for effect. I—that was the truth, what I told him.”

“What?” says Tony, startled. “No, of course! I just meant—you guys were good, you said just the right things. Not that… I know you weren’t making it up.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Buckaroo. Anyway, I’m gonna skedaddle, let my PR peeps know what’s up, and all that. Great work, great talk, see you later, okay, bye!”

He’s gone before either of them can respond.

With just the two of them, Bucky finally relaxes, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder. “That was exhausting,” he mumbles. “Why was that so exhausting?”

“I dunno,” says Steve, wrapping his arm around him. “Wanna take a nap?”

“We’ve got that appointment with the lawyer this afternoon,” Bucky reminds him.

“So we’ll set an alarm.”

“Mm.” Bucky’s quiet for a bit, then says, “I feel like we need to put the couch against the door or something. Not that I don’t like Tony, I just…”

Steve sighs. “I know. What we really need is to get a place of our own.”

“We don’t have any money,” Bucky points out.

“I was supposed to be getting paid for working for the Avengers. I ought to be able to get some of that. And… I could work for them again. If I needed to.”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently. “No—Steve, _no._ No more fighting. You _promised._ ”

“I know, Buck, I know,” Steve says placatingly. “Look, it’s a last resort, all right? But if we’re gonna build a life together, we have to have something to live _on._ ”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You said we wouldn’t have to fight again.”

“You don’t,” Steve hastily reassures him. “I told you that, I promised. You wouldn’t have to, even if I—”

“No,” says Bucky again. “No, you’re not making—you’re not sacrificing yourself for me, Steve. We’re a team, right? Whatever we do—we do together.”

“But you don’t want to fight.”

“So? Neither do you.” Bucky sighs. “It ain’t about what we want, pal. It never has been.”

“It’s still a last resort,” says Steve firmly. “We can ask the lawyer about it today. About money, I mean.”

Bucky nods, then turns into him, wrapping both arms around Steve’s waist. “We do need our own place,” he says softly. “But I don’t want it, if it means we have to go back to… that. Even for good people.”

Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s hair. “I know, Buck. I just… I want to be somewhere that’s _ours_. That no one else can take away. Here… Tony would let us stay forever, probably, but what if something happened to him? And… I want to be able to lock the door and know it’ll _stay locked_ , you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” says Bucky quietly. “I want that, too. I _do_ , Steve. But I don’t want to fight again.”

“Last resort, Buck. We’ll try all our other options, first.” Steve pulls back far enough to kiss him on the forehead, then on the mouth. “We’ll work it out,” he promises. “You’ll see.”

 

He meets Dr. Cho on the second day after their arrival; Bucky goes with him to the appointment, partly for moral support and partly because he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Steve alone with a stranger.

The brand is healed with no infection, but it’s black and raw-looking against his skin, and he can’t feel anything when he touches the area around it. Certain motions, or lifting heavy things, cause the muscle to ache, and the skin to feel pinched and tight. He can’t bear the sight of it, which means he has to wear long-sleeved shirts all the time, and avert his eyes when changing or showering, and both he and Bucky avoid touching it as much as possible.

He wants it _off_ , wants the numbness gone, but he tries not to hold out too much hope; even in the twenty-first century, burn damage isn’t something that’s easy to repair.

Dr. Cho examines it carefully, scanning it with a device that causes detailed diagrams of the layers of tissue to appear on the computer screens. Steve closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder, trying to breathe normally.

“Hey, you’re okay, _zeeskeit_ ,” Bucky murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve got you. Hey, remember the time you pushed Billy Johnson down the stairs at school?”

“I did _not_ ,” Steve says, gripping his hand for all he’s worth. “He pushed _me_ down the stairs and I punched him.”

“Why’d he push you down the stairs?”

“’Cuz I said his ma looked like a goat.”

“Really, Steve?”

“He called me a dirty Mick,” says Steve defensively. “Anyway, she _did_ —she had that long nose, mean eyes.”

“Yeah, but he was twice the size of—

“Alright,” Dr. Cho interrupts. “I think I’ve got what I need.”

Steve jerks his head up to look at her. “Can you—can you fix it?”

“For a given definition of ‘fix’, yes.”

“So…”

“It won’t look the same,” she says, “But the lines won’t be as obvious, and I can repair the subcutaneous tissue and nerve damage. With some PT, you’ll have a full range of motion again.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders eases somewhat. The thought of getting that horrid mark off his shoulder, of being able to wear short sleeves again without feeling like he wants to rip his skin off, makes him feel lighter than he has in days.

“Thank God,” he says, heartfelt, and Bucky squeezes his hand. He knows Bucky still feels guilty over the brand; hopefully, this will help lay that particular problem to rest, too.

“So I take it you want to go ahead with the procedure?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Okay, great.” She smiles warmly at him. “Do you want to schedule for the end of this week? I kept a block open on Friday in case you decided to go through with it.”

He exhales, nearly giddy with relief and anticipation. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

“Alright. I’ll send you all the paperwork; you just need to read it, sign it, and send it back to me by Wednesday. And do you want your partner in the room with you during the procedure?”

Steve flushes, a little thrill zipping through him at the words _your partner_. “That okay, Buck?” he murmurs.

Bucky gives him that familiar look of fond exasperation. “No, I’d rather pace around outside worryin’ about you the whole time. Of _course_ I want to be there.”

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, bumping his right shoulder to Bucky’s left.

“ _You’re_ a jerk,” says Bucky, bumping him back. “ _And_ a moron.”

“So I’ll just forward you the form for that, too,” says Dr. Cho, watching them with obvious amusement. “And I’ll see you on Friday!”

“Friday,” Steve echoes, then remembers his manners and shakes her hand. “Thank you. Really. This—it means a lot to me.”

“I know,” Dr. Cho says softly. “Believe me, I do.”

 

On Tuesday, Natasha shows up in their apartment with a sheaf of papers and a grim expression.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks immediately, his mind already running through disaster scenarios.

“We finally got access to Ross’s personal papers,” she says. “It concerns you directly, so. I thought you ought to see them.”

He stares at the papers like they’re a dog about to bite him. “It’s… relevant?”

“To both your case and you personally, yes.” She pauses. “It’s not… pleasant reading, but it is enlightening. It answers a lot of questions.”

Steve nods, and takes the papers. His hands are trembling.

“Do you want me to call Bucky?” she asks gently.

He shakes his head. Clint invited Bucky to try out his bow on the Tower’s shooting range, and it took a great deal of convincing before he consented to leave Steve by himself for a couple of hours. After all that, it seems a shame to call him back.

“You want me to stay?”

“If you don’t mind,” he says.

“Of course.” She goes to fill up the electric kettle, brushing a hand over his shoulder in passing. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”

Steve sits at the table, tapping the papers on the surface to get them all perfectly aligned. For a long moment, he just looks at them. He _wants_ to understand what happened to him and Bucky, why Ross did what he did, but at this point just _thinking_ about Ross is enough to tie his stomach in knots.

Quietly, Natasha comes up behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he turns the first page.

There’s a lot to get through—Ross’s theories about the super-serum and something called “operant conditioning”, detailed notes on finding Steve and the defrosting process, then more notes and reports on his “progress” once he woke up.

Certain sections jump out at him:

_My observations of Banner, Blonsky, and the Soldier, along with reports on Rogers and Schmidt, have led me to believe that the serum has a destabilizing effect on its subjects. They cannot be persuaded; only controlled._

And:

_Phillips’s papers show evidence of Rogers’s tendencies toward extreme insubordination. Whether this was the result of the serum or merely a biproduct of his personality is unclear, as Erskine’s notes were largely destroyed, or non-existent. Whatever the cause, we must take care not to repeat the SSR’s mistakes in giving him free reign. If he can be controlled, he will be a valuable asset; if not, he will be worse than useless…._

_Repeated wipes have had a deleterious effect on the Soldier’s cognitive function; it is therefore desirable to avoid wiping Rogers if at all possible. With extensive behavioral conditioning, I hope to be able to avoid the Chair altogether as a method of control…._

_Rogers shows increased pain tolerance and endurance under deprivation. This will make him a far stronger asset in the field, as we observed through our work with the Soldier…._

_Rogers is developing an attachment to the Soldier, while still unaware of his identity. This is to be encouraged, as long as the Soldier remains unaffected. Rogers is already becoming more responsive to conditioning due to the Soldier’s example. The Soldier’s identity is only to be used if all other methods of control fail; fortunately, it appears to be unnecessary so far…_

By the time he’s finished, Steve feels like he’s going to throw up. He’s very grateful for the tea Natasha sets in front of him (one of Bruce’s calming blends), and for her steady grip on his shoulder.

“What I don’t get,” he says at last, “Is why he let me on the Avengers. All this stuff about control… I’m surprised he let me out of his sight.”

“One of his subordinates agreed to turn state’s evidence,” says Natasha. “He mentioned that there were rumors that Howard Stark had samples of the serum in his possession. If that was true, then his son would presumably still have them.”

“Did he? Does Tony?”

Her mouth quirks. “As it turns out, Howard did have some samples—until one Margaret Carter, Director of SHIELD, found out and personally destroyed them. Along with, I believe, a large portion of Stark’s laboratory.”

“Good,” says Steve, with a vehemence that surprises even himself. “That serum is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Natasha gives him an exaggerated once-over. “Oh, I don’t know, it seems to have had its upsides.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, blushing. “What about Ross?”

“I believe he thought Tony would be eager to discuss the serum with you, the only known successful subject, and that you would be able to make off with the serum, and possibly a formula for it, at the appropriate moment.”

Steve stares at her. “He’s delusional.”

“Probably, yes.” She adjusts the cuffs of her sweater, entirely unnecessarily. “Failing that, I believe he thought you could cause a rift between the Avengers. Destroy us from the inside out.”

“And how would I do that?”

She meets his gaze squarely. “It can’t have escaped your notice that we were basically held together with spit and thread. It wouldn’t have taken much to turn us against each other.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Steve, feeling, absurdly, the urge to defend himself in this hypothetical scenario. He stands up, restless, and paces to the sink and back. “Even with how far down I was, I… I wouldn’t do that to you.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What if you knew he had Barnes? If he allowed you time together, or allowed you to jog his memories, as a reward? If he threatened to hurt him as a punishment?”

Steve closes his eyes. He can see it clearly, as though a reel is playing behind his eyelids; there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Bucky, almost no line he wouldn’t cross. And the Avengers hadn’t exactly been friendly to him, before they found out the truth. It probably wouldn’t have even felt like that much of a betrayal.

It would be relatively easy, too: Clint doubts himself, acts like a klutz and a screw-up so no one can be surprised when he _actually_ screws up; Natasha trusts no one, while desperately wanting to be trusted; Thor is still mourning his mother and brother, still coming to terms with the lies that had held his family together; Bruce is afraid of losing control, of being trapped, angry at the injustice in the world, and wary of being used again; and Tony… well, Steve could write a book about Tony’s insecurities. All it would take would be Tony’s papers showing up in Natasha’s room, an overheard conversation suggesting the others thought Bruce a monster, a suggestion that Thor blamed Clint for the mess that had happened with his brother….

Natasha is watching him with a knowing look. “It would be easiest to convince everyone I was spying on them,” she says. “Clint would take my side, of course, until he found proof that I was using _him_ , and then he’d run off in a fit of hurt and betrayal.”

“And once you’d self-destructed,” says Steve slowly, “It would be easy enough for Ross to say that none of you should have the power you’d been given. Tony’s suits, for example, are too dangerous to leave in civilian hands. And if Bruce didn’t appear to be under SHIELD’s control…”

“One incident is all it would take,” she agrees. “All of us have fairly… checkered pasts. Tony’s probably on his fourth or fifth chance already. I’m on… let’s call it my third. And Bruce has almost no public goodwill to lean on if the Hulk does something regrettable.”

It’s frightening to have it put in such bald terms, to think of how close they nearly came to disaster. If it hadn’t been for that one detour from their mission parameters—if it hadn’t been for Tony’s craving for _gelato_ , of all things—Ross’s plan might have succeeded. Steve might even now be planting the seeds for the Avengers’ destruction. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that it didn’t happen, that they’re safe, that he and Bucky are free.

“We need to do better,” he hears himself say.

“Better?”

“Yeah. I mean…” He clears his throat. “Ross might not be a threat anymore, but those—those divisions… someone else could still use that. And I mean, I know I’m not exactly on the team anymore…”

“You’ll always be on the team in our hearts, Steve,” she says, overly sweet, and he laughs.

“Seriously, though. I… we need to learn how… how to be friends. Really friends, not just on the surface. I trust you all, in a way I couldn’t have before, but… the rest of you need to trust each other, too. Not the life-or-death kind, but… just trusting that we all want the best for one another. That we’re more than just a team, more than just Nick Fury’s grand idea. At least, I think we are. I think we could be, if we worked on it.”

Her smile is sad, almost pitying, but he doesn’t think it’s directed at him. “Don’t you think that’s a little naïve, Rogers?”

“Oh, probably.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, leaning his shoulder against the fridge. “The five of you saved me, Natasha. I guess I feel like that has to mean something.”

For a long moment, she just looks at him, something fragile in her gaze. “You scare me sometimes, you know that? You’re so… so _straightforward_. I don’t know how to handle it.”

“I don’t think I’m _that_ straightforward.”

“You’re too trusting,” she says softly. “I feel like you just keep—handing me your heart on a platter, and I don’t know how not to break it.”

“Nat.” He raises his arms, and after a moment of hesitation, she closes the distance, allowing him to hug her. “You’re the one who told me being broken isn’t the end. And I don’t—I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to expect the worst in people. I’m choosing to have faith—at least in my friends. I think the rest of you could have some faith, too.”

She laughs, a melancholy little sound, and presses her forehead against his shoulder. He always forgets how short she is; the top of her head barely brushes his chin. “I think we’re in the wrong business for that, Rogers.”

“Maybe,” he says softly. “But it’s got to be better than the alternative, right?”

She steps back, expression soft and open. “Okay, Steve. Just for you, I’ll try.”

“We’re all a little broken,” says Steve. “We can start there.”

 

Friday comes, and with it, the procedure. Dr. Cho has Steve lie inside her machine, which is basically a padded table with a large metal hoop over the top of it. It’s a little too much like Ross’s operating tables for Steve’s comfort, and the smell of disinfectant makes him shudder.

 _It’s not the same_ , he tells himself. _You’re safe, you’re free, no one here is going to hurt you._

He turns his head, ignoring the strange equipment hovering over him, and concentrates on Dr. Cho’s warm smile and soft voice, on the pressure of Bucky squeezing his hand. Natasha and Clint offered to come with him, and now they’re sitting in the corner of the room, arguing about tattoos.

“We’re _spies_ , Clint, a tattoo is one of the most easily identifiable features—”

“I’m not gonna put it on my forehead—no one’s gonna see me naked—”

“Tell that to that chick you slept with who turned out to be a _mob boss’s wife_.”

“Aw, Nat, that was _one time_ …”

“It was _at least_ twice.”

“You slept with a mob boss’s wife?” Steve interjects, because he’d rather think about that than whatever Dr. Cho is doing to his arm.

Clint pouts. “I didn’t _mean_ to, I was getting tape and then I saw her car and offered to buy it, and then she said she had tape at her apartment so I went up, and then, uh, things got kind of out of hand…”

“She got kidnapped,” says Natasha drily. “While Clint was still trying to find his pants.”

“I’d like to see _you_ try to fight off a bunch of mobsters naked.”

Natasha grins. “You _have._ Remember that time in Sicily?”

“You had a thigh holster and a thong,” says Clint. “Doesn’t count.”

“Why,” says Bucky, in the tone of someone who knows they’re going to regret asking, “were you only wearing—uh, that?”

“We were trying to infiltrate a strip club,” Natasha says. “The Mafia was using it as a cover for a smuggling operation.”

The machine beeps, and Dr. Cho glances at the readout. “Ten more minutes,” she tells Steve. “It’s working exactly as planned.”

“Thanks,” he says, trying hard to sound calm.

He must not quite succeed, because she asks, “Are you in any pain?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it… it feels _weird_ , but it doesn’t hurt.” His upper arm is engulfed in a tingly, itchy feeling, uncomfortable but not painful. He keeps his eyes averted, focusing instead on Bucky’s face.

“You could get a tattoo,” murmurs Bucky, picking up the earlier thread of the conversation. “You could draw it yourself.”

“Don’t know how I’d do with needles, Buck.”

Bucky’s gaze goes to Steve’s shoulder, then quickly skitters away. “Yeah, I… I wasn’t thinking about that part of it.”

“It would be cool,” says Steve, a little wistfully. “I don’t know how ink would react with the serum, though. It might not take.”

“You could ask Thor,” Clint suggests. “Your serum probably isn’t that different from whatever the Asgardians have.”

“Do Asgardians have tattoos?”

“Yes,” says Natasha firmly. “They definitely do.”

Clint groans. “Aw, Nat, don’t tell me Thor’s got an ass tat.”

“It’s on his thigh.”

“Uh uh,” says Clint. “I call bullshit. I have _seen_ Thor in swim trunks—”

She gives a delicate little cough that completely fails to hide her amusement. “It’s… fairly high up.”

“ _Nat!_ ”

Natasha shrugs, unrepentant. “What, you see a body like that in the changing rooms and you’re just going to _look away_?”

“Uh, yes? That’s _creepy_ , Natasha.”

“Look, if you’re going to walk around naked in the _communal changing rooms_ …”

“Almost done!” says Dr. Cho loudly. Her cheeks are a bit pink. “Just a couple more minutes, Steve. You’re doing really well…”

“You can kick them out, if you want,” Steve jokes weakly. “I won’t be offended.”

“Hey!”

Dr. Cho smiles. “Don’t worry, Steve. They’re just fine.”

“We know each other of old,” Clint says loftily. “We’re practically besties.”

“He means she regrew a chunk of his abdomen,” Natasha explains. “ _Once_.”

“Hey, once is better than nunce. Is that a word?”

Natasha shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’d be less hopeless if I got a sick tat.”

“Getting a bullseye on your shoulder blade is neither ‘sick’ nor subtle. If you _must_ get a tattoo, at least get something that’s not so clichéd. And doesn’t announce your identity to the world.”

“I could get an arrow?” Clint offers.

“What part of ‘not a cliché’ and ‘doesn’t tell everyone your identity’ didn’t you get?”

“You could do a feather,” Steve suggests.

“You could get a tramp stamp,” says Dr. Cho, smirking.

Natasha points at her. “Oh, I _like_ you.”

“What’s a tramp stamp?” asks Steve.

Dr. Cho appears not to hear him, busy peering at the machine’s readout. “Looks like you’re all done! Go ahead and sit up for me; we’ll test your range of motion.”

“It’s a tattoo right above your ass crack,” says Clint.

Steve sits up, extending his arm for Dr. Cho’s inspection. “Sounds perfect for you, Clint. You should do it.”

Natasha starts laughing. “You heard it here first, folks. Captain America wants YOU to get a tramp stamp.”

“Get a tat _too_ for the red, white, and blue!” says Steve, in his best Captain-America stage voice, and Clint snorts coffee up his nose.

Dr. Cho is still snickering as she examines his upper arm. “Can you feel this? Any pain?”

“Yeah, I can feel it… no, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Can you make a fist for me? Good. Any pain? No? Can you flex your bicep for me?”

Steve obliges, and Clint wolf-whistles. “Welcome to the gun show!”

“I don’t know what that means, Clint.”

“It means he thinks you’re hot,” says Bucky boredly.

“I knew _that_ ,” Steve says.

Natasha cackles, and Dr. Cho puts her hands on her hips.

“A little less noise from the peanut gallery,” she says, but she’s grinning, too. “Rotate your arm for me, Steve. Any pain? Stiffness?”

He tests it, noting that the twinges he’d felt when raising his arm above his head are gone. His arm feels… normal. “It all feels good, Doc.”

“Good. Do you want to take a look at it?”

Steve feels a spike of anxiety, but swallows it down. His right hand finds Bucky’s, never far away. “Yeah, okay.”

She holds up a mirror for him, and he takes one deep, fortifying breath before facing his reflection.

The brand is gone.

His arm doesn’t look precisely like it used to— the skin is a darker shade of pink, almost mauve, and there are faint purplish lines where the burn marks were, too vague to make any kind of shape—but it’s _his_ , with no mark of ownership blazoned on his flesh.

He releases a pent-up, shuddering breath, and touches his shoulder with his right hand, feeling the warm, unblemished skin beneath his fingers. When he raises his head, his vision is a little blurred.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I… thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” says Dr. Cho. “I’m glad I could help you, Steve.”

He nods, suddenly overwhelmed, and Natasha drapes an arm over his shoulder.

“Come on, Rogers, let’s go celebrate. I’m thinking Moose Tracks.”

Steve smiles up at her, blinking hard, as Bucky leans into his other side, a warm and reassuring weight. “That sounds really good.”

“Alright. Helen? It’s been a pleasure.”

“Wait, wait,” says Dr. Cho, laughing. “You still have paperwork to fill out.”

“Oh, who has time for paperwork?” says Natasha, but she guides Steve to a chair regardless, and sits down next to him. “Okay, the faster we get through this, the faster we can get ice cream, right?”

“Here, hand some of those to me,” says Bucky. “I can do his signature.”

“Oh, good, me too. We can split them.”

“When did you learn my signature?” Steve demands of Natasha.

“Uh, when we met? Saves time later.”

Dr. Cho watches them in bemusement. “Technically, you’re supposed to fill out the forms yourself.”

“But our way is so much more efficient,” drawls Natasha.

Steve can’t help but laugh, nudging her with his newly-healed shoulder. “It’s okay,” he tells Dr. Cho. “I trust them.”

It’s not just wishful thinking, not anymore; it’s the truth, pure and simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist adding more angst, I'm sorry!  
> Jim Morita was from Fresno, but it looked to me like where people lived wasn't particularly relevant to which internment camps they were sent to. There were camps in California, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, Arkansas, and Wyoming.  
> The story Clint tells about hooking up with a mob boss's wife is from the Matt Fraction comics, and I feel it's a perfect illustration of what an utter disaster Clint's life is.


	17. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, then the epilogue! Thanks so much for sticking with me, everyone.  
> Special thanks to siyuttov for their feedback on this chapter. It was very helpful, and I really appreciate it!  
> Content warnings for discussions of death and grief, some victim blaming from the victims. Basically, discussions of stuff that's already happened in this fic.

_And did you get what_   
_you wanted from this life, even so?_   
_I did._   
_And what did you want?_   
_To call myself beloved, to feel myself_   
_beloved on the earth._

_"Late Fragment", Raymond Carver_

 

The trial finally officially gets underway, and it’s just as horrible as Steve was expecting. With the mountains of evidence SHIELD has piled up, it’s almost certain that Ross and his accomplices will go to prison for life, but that doesn’t mean they go down easy. Ross clearly still believes himself to be in the right, and he and his legal counsel do their best to paint Steve and Bucky as deranged and barely human.

“You don’t let an attack dog loose in a shopping mall,” he says in the first hearing, and Steve turns off the TV, feeling sick.

Even though he _knows_ Ross is in the wrong, he can’t get the words out of his mind—can’t help but go over and over his worst moments, remembering how desperate he was, how willing to do _anything_. He thinks about how he’s still too anxious to go to doctors’ appointments alone, how he still recoils from being touched by anyone other than Bucky and the Avengers (and sometimes even them), about the nightmares and insomnia, and feels suddenly, dreadfully, unsure.

They haven’t left the Tower once since they got to New York. He hasn’t _wanted_ to, but what if… what if this is some form of house arrest? What if the others see him as a risk, a liability? _You don’t let an attack dog loose in a shopping mall…_

Bucky must be going through the same thing; his face is dreadfully blank, and he’s staring at his hands like they belong to a stranger. “Is he…” he rasps, and trails off. “Am I— _should_ I be locked up, Stevie? What if I—if I snap, and…?”

“No,” says Steve, “No, Buck,” but he can’t summon any conviction, not when Ross’s words are still echoing around his own mind. He presses his forehead to his knees, trying to shut out the voice that had tormented him during his captivity, but all he can think of is Ross calling him erratic, listing the times he tried to attack Bucky to escape, the times he went against orders during the war, acting on instinct rather than reason. Does a madman _know_ he’s mad? What if…?

“…Okay? Steve?” says Clint’s voice. “Are you… were you watching the trial?”

 Steve nods into his hands, curling himself up further. _They must have seen… must have heard… Are they going to think like Ross? That I’m—that we’re—_

“Hey, calm down, man, it’s okay. Hey, you wanna pet my dog? Lucky’s practically a service dog, right boy? Here, just… just give him a pet… JARVIS, get the others, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing—Barnes, c’mere, you’re okay…”

Coarse fur brushes Steve’s fingers, and then there’s a soft snout nuzzling at his face, and then a wet tongue and—

“UGH, Clint, what the _hell_ has this dog been eating?”

“See, I knew he’d be good at this!” Clint says triumphantly. “Shit, Lucky, don’t—”

It’s too late; there’s a crash as Lucky’s enthusiastic tail-wagging knocks Bucky’s mug off the coffee table, spattering cold tea everywhere.

The sound, at least, pulls Bucky out of his head; he gives a wild-eyed look at the dog, then at Clint, but before he can move, Lucky jumps onto the couch and attempts to lick his ears. Bucky makes a startled, disgusted sound, pushing him away; the dog just butts his head into his chest, and Bucky finally gets the idea and hugs him around the neck, stroking him with a dazed expression.

“I thought we agreed you guys weren’t gonna watch the trial stuff alone,” says Clint.

“We… didn’t want to bother you,” Steve mumbles.

Clint opens his mouth, shuts it, then runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I want to yell at you for being such a frickin’ moron, but that… probably wouldn’t be helpful right now. Also, it would be totally hypocritical. But listen, buddy, you gotta know—oh thank God, Natasha,” he adds with obvious relief as the door opens.

It’s not just Natasha; it’s Bruce, Tony, Thor, and Pepper, too. There’s a lot of talking, but it’s somehow hard for Steve to concentrate on it; he’s watching Bucky, who’s holding onto Lucky like his life depends on it, his dark head bowed and shoulders hunched to make himself small as possible.

Familiar voices wash over him, and then familiar hands are touching him, moving him so that he and Bucky are pressed together, with Lucky still half in Bucky’s lap. Blankets are draped over them, and then Thor is squeezing onto the couch beside Bucky, and Bruce plops down on Steve’s other side; Natasha settles herself on the arm of the couch, Pepper leans against their legs, Tony sits on Thor’s lap, and Clint ends up on the coffee table, apparently unbothered by the tea soaking into his jeans.

 _They’re not afraid_ , Steve thinks, even Pepper and Tony, who are so fragile compared to the rest of them. Natasha leans over Bruce to put her hand on Steve’s shoulder, Pepper leans her head against his knee, and Thor puts his arm around Bucky; they speak soft words of comfort, of reassurance, slowly chasing away the darkness left by Ross’s vitriol.

It's not until some time later, after Clint has made cocoa and Tony has ordered pizza, that Steve finally pulls himself together enough to speak.

“What he said,” he says quietly. “I just couldn’t help but think… what if it’s true? What if I’m—what if it did something to my head, like Schmidt? What if I just didn’t notice?”

“What if pigs start flying around this tower?” asks Tony. “What if Florida freezes over?”

“I’m serious, Tony.”

“Yeah, so am I. Steve. Cap. I love you, but you are dumb as shit. Even if you didn’t notice—even if nobody in the entire SSR noticed, even if _Peggy fucking Carter_ didn’t notice—don’t you think _we_ would have noticed if you were some kind of psychopath?”

Steve lowers his eyes, ashamed of his paranoid thoughts.

“Or did you think we _did_ notice, and didn’t say anything to you?” asks Natasha, in the neutral tone that usually means she’s hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

 “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Thor assures him, squeezing his shoulder. “It is easy to think the worst, when you’ve been gravely hurt.”

Steve glances at Natasha, who shrugs, then nods. “It’s okay, Steve. The stuff he was saying… that kind of thing gets under your skin. Believe me, I _know_.”

“You didn’t even do anything bad,” Bucky says softly. “Not like me.”

“Woah,” says Tony, putting up his hands. “I’m gonna stop you right there, Barnacles. I’m pretty sure we already established that the mind-controlled assassin-ing was not your fault.”

Bucky looks away, his lips pressed together.

“And anyway,” says Steve, “I’m not better than you. I’ve killed people.”

“You’ve killed bad guys.”

“Some of them, yeah. Others… shit, Bucky, that Army mission had me fighting _teenagers_. Even some of the Avengers missions… I’m not criticizing you guys,” he says to the others, “but from what I’ve seen, SHIELD has a bad habit of seeing certain people as expendable. And some of the people we fought—how many of them were really evil, and how many were desperate, or scared, or thought they had no choice? I have no idea. I _knew_ there might be other ways of dealing with those people, those situations, and I was too scared to say anything.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You’re right, it’s not. I wasn’t brainwashed when I did it.”

There’s a moment’s silence. The others are looking at him, their faces ranging from uncomfortable (Tony) to stricken (Bruce) to expressionless (Natasha).

 _Shit_ , he thinks. _They’re trying to comfort me, and I go and call all of their ethics into question. Great job, Steve._

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not—I’m _not_ saying that you guys did anything wrong. I just mean that _I_ didn’t know, and I didn’t question, so that—that’s on me. I didn’t mean…”

“No, Steve,” says Thor quietly. “Don’t apologize. These are important considerations, and I, for one, have often failed to consider them. We’ve relied on SHIELD to tell us what to do, what methods to use. And admirable as SHIELD may be in many ways…”

“Big-picture thinking,” says Tony, eyes focused on Steve’s face. “We talked about this, right? With the… the Chair thing. The ‘greater good’ versus… individual rights. You’ve been thinking about this a long time, haven’t you, Cap?”

Steve winces. “It’s just my opinion. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to imply that you guys…”

“No, stop, shut up,” Tony orders. “We’re not doing the thing where you get all freaked out and think we’re gonna turn on you, okay? We’re just—not. You don’t agree with all the stuff our team did— _fine_. It sounds a little like you’re saying we’re all murderers—”

“I’m _not_ ,” says Steve, earnest. “I swear, I would never think that—”

“Most of us are, in one way or another,” says Bruce unexpectedly. “Even if by proxy, or by accident. Most of us jumped at the opportunity to make amends.”

“Perhaps there are some truths we preferred not to see,” Natasha murmurs. “Perhaps we need to… reassess.”

“But not right now,” says Clint. He looks around at their surprised expressions. “What? I’m used to fucking up; it’s nothing new. Maybe we did some less than great stuff out there, but we know for a _fact_ we did a lot of good. So… we figure out how to do better. Later. Right now, this is about making sure these guys know that everything Ross said was a pile of crap, and eating some delicious pizza. Right?”

“Well said,” says Thor, reaching around Tony to clap him on the shoulder. “This matter requires some thought, but it is not the most pressing concern at this moment.” He makes eye contact with Steve and Bucky. “My brothers, please do not concern yourself with the filthy lies of a degenerate weevil like Ross. As Clint so wisely said, his words are nothing but a steaming heap of bullshit.”

Bucky makes a strangled sound that, after a moment, turns into a snicker, which turns into full-throated laughter. He hides his face in Steve’s shoulder, still laughing helplessly, and Steve can’t help but join in.

It’s a release of tension, and soon all of them are laughing, falling against one another and clutching at their sides. In the middle of it all, there’s a knock on the door, and Clint and Lucky both perk up.

“Pizza!” Clint shouts, and bolts for the door, the dog bounding alongside him.

The evening ends far differently from how it began, with the team crowded onto all the available seating in the living room, devouring pizza and cheerfully arguing about toppings. Bucky and Bruce remain at Steve’s side, and Natasha moves to the floor so she can lean against Steve’s calf, a warm and comforting presence.

Steve thinks of what he had told her, only a few days previously: _We could be more than just a team, more than Nick Fury’s grand idea._ He’s reminded, again, that they’ve all seen, not perhaps the worst of him, but close to it, and they’re all still here. _We can do this_ , he thinks. _We’re already getting there. We can be so much more._

 

Bonding with the Avengers turns into something of a personal challenge, one only Natasha and Bucky know about.

Steve talks Tony into joining him and Bruce for one of their late-night chemistry sessions, and mentally congratulates himself when the two scientists immediately get absorbed in testing one of Bruce’s corrosives against the alloy Tony uses in his suits. They barely notice when Steve bows out around three in the morning. After that, Steve frequently finds Tony already present when he wanders into Bruce’s lab, or vice-versa; Bruce, it turns out, is just as interested in Tony’s experiments as Tony is in Bruce’s.

The Avengers as a whole tend to be very prone to insomnia, and with a few nudges, it becomes more common for them to seek each other out. Somehow, Bruce’s lab becomes the place to be on those sleepless nights: when Thor’s around, he, Bruce, and Tony experiment with electricity; Steve and Bucky stir and fetch things, or hang out on the couch and play with the Slinkies while the others figure out new and exciting ways to make things explode; and Natasha joins them more and more frequently, although she doesn’t participate in the experiments either. She seems to have a knack for knowing when it’s just Bruce, or just Bruce and Steve, there, and curls up in the corner of the couch like a cat, watching.

Clint, the only one not living at the Tower right now, misses out on these midnight sessions, but when he starts talking about “putty arrows”—arrows that could more or less glue someone in place—Tony and Bruce drag him off to the lab to test out prototypes, and it’s all the three of them will talk about for days.

Natasha introduces Steve and Bucky to Russian poetry, and Steve retaliates with Stephen Crane; Bruce hears about it and gets out his volume of Rumi, and Bucky rediscovers Siegfried Sassoon; then Pepper Potts ask if any of them have read Lorna Dee Cervantes, and somehow, it ends with the five of them meeting up more or less regularly to drink tea and talk about poetry, each of them eager for new material and perspectives.

Without any apparent prompting, Tony decides that what they really need is a weekly movie night, which generally starts with a protracted argument about what to watch, and usually ends with a heated debate about the merits of the chosen film. They all have wildly different tastes, which makes it difficult for them to find something they all enjoy. This does not deter Tony, who draws up a spreadsheet to figure out where they overlap, draws up a different spreadsheet to account for everyone’s triggers, and uses the results to create an algorithm to “pick the perfect movie”. It seems like overkill to Steve, and they end up watching a lot of Pixar and Studio Ghibli, but it’s… nice, to just hang out with everyone, without needing to talk, or make eye-contact, or even stay awake, really.

It’s one more thing to draw them closer together, and he thinks he can see the results in the way his teammates reach out to each other more often, relaxing and enjoying each other’s company in a way he hadn’t fully realized was missing until now.

 

Steve and Bucky are both desperately in need of a haircut, especially with Hanukkah and court appearances looming on the horizon. Steve knows it’s necessary, but still shies away from the idea of going to a barber shop—he doesn’t think he can deal with the lights and the noise and other people around while he lets someone mess with his head, and he _knows_ Bucky can’t.

He mentions the problem to Bruce, who says, “I’m pretty sure Tony has someone come here to do his hair—why don’t you ask him?”

“A barber?” Tony says, when Steve asks. “Well, I mean, not exactly, but my hairdresser does house-calls, and obviously she does men’s cuts, so… you want me to ask her?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” says Steve, and Tony waves him off.

“No problem, I’ll just have JARVIS do it, he’s already got your schedule, right? Great. Leave it to me, Cappuccino, I got it.”

The appointment is made, and Steve annoys Bucky with his pacing while they wait for the hairdresser to arrive, anxious thoughts swirling through his head. What if something happens and he freaks out, or has a panic attack? What if she’s scared of them, or pitying, or disgusted, what if she gawks or asks questions or…

In the end, his fears are unfounded. The hairdresser, Margaret, is in her late forties, with olive skin and greying hair and a practical, no-nonsense attitude that sets them both at ease. Steve thinks the Pope himself could walk in and ask for a haircut, and she wouldn’t even blink.

“What kind of cut are you looking for?” she asks, and Steve shyly shows her some pictures he’s gotten off the Internet.

“I was thinking a bit long on top, like this, but shorter on the sides… something a little more, um, more modern, you know?”

She scans the pictures, then nods. “I can work with that. And what about you, honey?” she adds to Bucky.

Bucky visibly startles at the endearment, but recovers quickly. “Just a trim,” he says quietly. “I… I don’t think clippers would, um…”

“I don’t have to use clippers, even if you want something shorter,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I—I still want it long, thanks. Just, you know…”

“Styled?” she finishes. “Sure thing, hon. Which of you’d like to go first?”

“I will,” Steve says, and she sets him up on a stool she brought with her, which is apparently adjustable, and settles the cape around his shoulders.

“You gonna have any problem with the clippers, honey?”

“I… don’t _think_ so.”

“Okay, how about I just turn ‘em on, so you can be sure you’re used to ‘em.”

“Thanks,” he says gratefully, and watches while she turns them on.

The sound doesn’t bother him, and she’s good about telling him what she’s doing, asking before she touches him, and her hands are gentle as she tilts his head to get a better angle. It takes perhaps twenty minutes, but when it’s over and he looks in the mirror, he finds himself smiling.

The cut isn’t like anything he’s ever had before, several inches long on the top and buzzed short on the sides, and she shows him how to use product to swoop his hair back from his forehead.

It feels good, he decides, running a hand through his hair. It feels like a fresh start.

She only takes a couple inches off Bucky’s hair, but it makes a difference. Rather than looking shaggy and unkempt, his hair looks smooth and soft, like the women in shampoo commercials on the TV. Bucky’s always had a certain movie-star quality to his features, and the haircut only accentuates it; Steve finds himself drawn, as if by a magnet, to his sharp cheekbones and full mouth, the silkiness of his hair and the blue of his eyes.

“Buck… you look…” He stops, acutely aware of Margaret’s presence.

“Aw, you look great, honey,” she says, brushing a few stray hairs off his metal arm. “You’re a handsome pair, the two of you.”

Bucky looks bashful, his cheeks faintly pink. “You like it, Steve?”

“’Course I do. It looks good, Buck. Real good.” He grins at him, feeling a little helpless in the face of Bucky’s… well, his _everything_.

“You, too. I mean, I like the cut, it… it suits you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. Modern.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stand there for a few seconds, just smiling at each other, until Margaret clears her throat, making them both jump.

“I’ll just get out of your hair, then. You two enjoy the rest of your day!”

“Wait,” says Steve, remembering himself. “We forgot to pay you!”

She laughs. “Oh, no, honey, Mr. Stark already took care of that. You boys have a good day!”

The door closes behind her, and Steve would be concerned about owing yet another thing to Tony Stark, except Bucky chooses that moment to run his fingers through Steve’s hair, and everything else goes away for a little while.

 

The end of November approaches quickly, and with it, Hanukkah and their visit with the Barneses.

Bucky seems likely to work himself into a nervous wreck before they even get there, and Steve’s soothing only goes so far. Finally, he calls in reinforcements in the form of Natasha and Pepper, who decide that what Bucky needs is something _different_ to worry about, and drag him and Steve off on a shopping trip.

Steve is dreading the brightly-lit, overcrowded stores that he and Bucky had encountered one of the few times they attempted to explore modern New York, but Natasha steers them toward consignment shops instead.

“You can find a lot of perfectly good stuff here,” she says. “ _And_ it’s cheap.”

The shop they end up in is quiet and rather dim, with racks upon racks of used clothing winding toward the back. The guy at the register doesn’t so much as look up from his paperback as they venture further into the forest of fabric, and Steve thinks of the wardrobe in Bucky’s Narnia books, of a magical country sharing space with the winter coats.

Pepper pulls a garish plaid dress off the rack and holds it up to herself, smiling. “I haven’t been in one of these places in _years._ Everything I wear now is bespoke.”

“Down with the bourgeoise,” Natasha says, examining a pair of leather boots. “Something something capitalist pigs.”

“Eat the rich,” agrees Steve, more or less automatically.

 “For your information, Tony and I have been lobbying for a tax increase on the wealthy ever since he got control of the company,” says Pepper. “But I do take your point.”

“It’s not you, darling, it’s the system,” Natasha drawls. “Oo, Bucky, look at this sweater!”

The sweater in question is blue, with a large, glittery menorah on the front. Natasha does something, and little LEDs light up the fabric candle flames.

“Thanks, I hate it.”

“Ooh, look at you getting hip with the modern lingo! You should wear it to your sister’s house.”

“Absolutely not,” he says flatly.

“But it’s so festive!”

“It’s hideous.”

“You have no sense of fun,” Natasha laments, and dives back into the racks, no doubt looking for something equally terrible to foist on them.

In the end, they do wind up with a decent assortment of clothing—a couple of sweaters each, jeans and corduroys, jackets, and a few shirts, things they can wear all winter. It’s nice to pick out something for themselves, to pay with money from the bank account they set up just last week with the first installment of Steve’s Avengers backpay.

Afterwards, they go to a used bookstore, where they fill an entire shopping bag with books, and then to a coffee shop Natasha knows for hot chocolate and pastries.

It’s a good day, and the new books distract Bucky enough that by the time Hanukkah actually rolls around, he’s only moderately frantic, instead of having a full-blown panic attack.

“They’re gonna hate me,” he says, changing his shirt for the third time. “I’m gonna be the deadbeat uncle no one wants to see but they’re too polite not to invite.”

“Bucky, everybody you’ve met since we got out has loved you,” Steve reminds him. “You’ve even got what’s-her-name from the café—”

“Ashleigh.”

“Right. Even Ashleigh likes you, and she doesn’t like _anyone._ ”

“She doesn’t dislike you, she’s just grumpy,” says Bucky immediately, like that’s the important thing here.

Steve can’t help rolling his eyes. “My point is that people like you, Bucky. And your family is gonna like you too.”

“I don’t deserve it,” says Bucky quietly, not looking at him. He clenches his metal hand, then stretches out his fingers, the plates realigning with a faint hum.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Steve pulls him into a hug. “It’s never been about what we deserved.”

 

Tony’s head of security, Happy, drives them out to Park Hill, where the houses have front lawns and trees in the backyard, and the sky isn’t crowded with buildings. Steve has always considered himself a city boy, but the Brooklyn of his boyhood is a far cry from the steel and glass of Upper Manhattan, and it’s something of a relief to get away. Out here, there are trees, and gardens, and grass—withered now, to be sure, only potted mums and artfully arranged gourds clinging on past November’s frosts—and it settles something in him, some tension he hadn’t known he was carrying. Yonkers isn’t exactly a rural paradise, but there’s a suggestion of openness, of freedom, here that he hasn’t felt since Malibu.

Happy parks outside a two-story house with the half-brick, half-siding construction that seems to be a fad these days. It is, as far as Steve is concerned, a pretty ugly design, but there’s a big tree in the front yard that probably gives shade in the summer, the hedge is full of some kind of red berries, and there’s a cheery collection of pumpkins on the front porch, the largest carved with a six-pointed star. The harvest wreath on the door is woven with blue and silver ribbon, with a little banner declaring “Happy Thanksgivukkah!” above it.

Once upon a time, Bucky had written _Atheist_ on his draft forms, at his mother’s insistence, because it wasn’t safe to be a Jew on the Front. Even in Brooklyn, there had always been dangers; stores with ugly signs in the windows, people who read about what was happening in Germany and said _I don’t agree with his methods, but he has the right idea._ He knows that things aren’t exactly perfect nowadays, but the fact that Bucky’s family can display their beliefs for all to see, without fear of retribution, gives him a pleasant kind of ache in his chest.

“You guys gonna get out, or what?” asks Happy, and Steve startles out of his woolgathering.

Bucky appears almost ill, his face pale and clammy-looking. He stares at the house as though at a gallows, and only reluctantly gets out when Happy opens his door for him.

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck,” Steve says quietly, taking his hand. “They’re gonna love you.”

Bucky just shakes his head, eyes fixed on the house. His palm is cold, and damp with sweat.

Happy gets their bags out of the trunk, handing them off to Steve. “I’ll wait ‘til you’re inside before I go, alright?”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Thanks, Happy.”

Neither of them move.

After a long minute, the door opens, and a grey-haired woman appears in the doorway, hands going to her hips in a gesture that reminds Steve overwhelmingly of Bucky’s mother. “James Buchannan Barnes,” she calls, in a tone that is, again, eerily reminiscent of their mother, “are you coming in, or are you going to stand around on the sidewalk all day?”

“Leah,” Bucky breathes, breaking into a run. At the door, he catches her up and swings her around, as though she’s still the nineteen-year-old she was when he last saw her.

“Put me down, you big lunk!” she laughs. “I’m not a teenager anymore, I’ll break something!”

He does as she requests, setting her gently on her feet again, but stays a little bent, as her arms are still around his neck.

“Bucky,” she says breathlessly. “I can hardly believe it’s really you.”

“I can hardly believe it either,” he says, raising a tentative hand to her weathered cheek. “Even seeing you over the computer, it feels… it doesn’t seem like it could really be real.”

She cups his face in her hands, then kisses his cheek. “It’s real, Bucky,” she says firmly. “Bucky, you’ve come _home._ ”

Bucky doesn’t seem able to speak; he closes his eyes, and leans into her hand; his right arm circles around her waist, but his left hangs stiffly at his side, as though he’s reluctant to touch her with it.

“Bucky,” she says, half-reproachfully, and grabs his metal wrist, placing it firmly on her waist. “I may be old, but I’m not _fragile_. Go on, hug me properly.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and folds her into his arms, pressing his cheek to her hair.

Steve, who has followed Bucky up the walk, is close enough to see the tears in Bucky’s eyes, and hear the hitch in his breathing. He’s not the only one crying; Leah’s shoulders shake, and she clutches the back of Bucky’s jacket as though afraid to let go.

“Oh, Bucky,” she murmurs. “I missed you so much.”

“I—” he stops, chokes, and hides his face in her shoulder. “I missed you,” he says after a moment. “When I could. As long as I was myself, I missed you.”

She cradles the back of his head with one hand, then turns to Steve, eyes suspiciously damp. “And you, Steve. Come here.”

Steve takes the couple of steps necessary to come within her reach, and Bucky loosens his hold a little so that Leah can reel Steve into a one-armed embrace.

“Little Stevie,” she murmurs fondly. “I missed you, too.”

“I missed you, too, Leah,” he rasps, vision blurring with his own tears. “God, I missed all of you.”

“Come inside,” she says, giving them both a little shake. “You’ll catch your death out here, and Becca’s waiting.”

 _Becca_. Steve feels the mingled sense of fear and anticipation that has accompanied every reunion with his old friends. Becca was only a couple of years younger than Bucky and only a year younger than Steve, which meant she had frequently gotten roped into (and occasionally instigated) Bucky and Steve’s various escapades. Becca was Steve’s closest friend besides Bucky, and when Bucky shipped off to Basic, Steve had spent most of his free time with her.

He’s been trying to ready himself for this moment, but he still feels woefully under-prepared. Bucky looks just as trepidatious as Steve feels, and there’s obvious tension in his shoulders as he follows Leah into the house.

Steve grabs the duffle bag and backpack they’ve brought with them, waves to Happy, and goes inside.

Leah shows them into a spacious living room, furnished in warm colors and comfortable looking furniture. Steve recognizes the grandfather clock George’s parents had brought with them from Romania, Winnifred’s rocking chair, and, above the mantelpiece, a framed sketch of the Barnes family that he had drawn, only a few months before Bucky was drafted. The fireplace is one of those modern gas things, but the flickering blue and yellow flames lend the room a cozy atmosphere, and reminds Steve of the big coal stove that had heated the Barnes household.

Becca is waiting for them, sitting in her wheelchair by the fireplace like a queen granting audience to her subjects. Her hair is short and white, framing her face in soft waves, and she wears spectacles.

She looks so _old_ , and Steve falters, noting that Bucky, too, has stopped moving. He doesn’t know what to say; he feels suddenly, weirdly guilty, for still being young, for remaining unchanged when she is not. For not being there, when he should have. For abandoning them, all of them, everyone he cared about.

“Becks,” Bucky breathes. “You look just like Grandma Ruthie.” He immediately claps his hand to his mouth, while Leah cackles in the background. “Shit, I didn’t mean, um—”

“You look old,” intones Leah, for some reason adopting a heavy Greek accent.

Becca’s mouth twitches. “Well, _I_ think I’m looking pretty good for ninety-four. Oh, come here, you two, and stop looking so bashful. I want to see you.”

They go to her, kneeling down on either side of her chair, and she catches both their hands in hers. “I know I’m channeling Mom right now,” she says, “but you both look so thin. Have you been eating enough?”

“We… we are _now_ ,” Bucky says softly. “It just, it takes awhile to…”

“They were starving you.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” says Steve.

Becca’s grip tightens, her expression turning fierce. “If I ever get ahold of that _man_ ,” she says viciously, “I will rip off his balls with my own two hands.”

Steve can’t help laughing at that, and once he starts, he can’t stop; then tears, always close to the surface these days, are pouring down his cheeks, and he’s crying, and Bucky’s crying, and Becca’s crying, and everyone is hugging each other, and he no longer knows whose hands he’s holding, or whose tears are smeared across his skin.

 

About an hour after Steve and Bucky arrive, the doorbell rings, followed by the sound of the door opening and voices in the hall.

“Fiona, hang on, let me take your coat—take off your shoes— _don’t_ , you’ll get mud on Aunt Leah’s nice carpet— _Benjamin Lewis_ , don’t you _dare_ run off with your boots on—honey, can you get the sufganiyot out of the car?”

“Sure, did you get the diaper bag?”

“No, crap, I forgot. Would you—thanks, hon. Alright, Fiona, okay, go say hi. Benny, _wait_ , your shoes!”

There’s a patter of light feet, and a small child, of indeterminate age and gender, comes rushing into the room.

“Aunt Leah!”

“Hi, sweetie!” Leah says, stopping to hug the child. “What’s your name today?”

“Fiona! Like the princess,” says the child enthusiastically. “She’s a girl, too!”

“She sure is!” Leah answers. “That’s a great name, honey. How about you say hi to Grandma Becca, huh?”

“Hi, Grandma!” shouts Fiona, and barrels past Steve and Bucky to hug her legs. “My name is Fiona now, and I’m still a girl!”

“Oh, hi, sweetie!” Becca says, hugging back. “It’s good to have you here.”

Steve glances at Bucky, who looks just as mystified as Steve feels, but doesn’t have the chance to say anything before a dark-haired man who looks about their age—that is, late twenties to early thirties—enters the room, carrying a toddler on his hip.

“Happy Hanukkah!” he says, hugging Leah with his free arm. Turning to Becca, he adds, “Grandma, I didn’t know you were here already!”

“Hi, Jim,” says Becca. “Where’s Beth?”

“Ah, she’s just getting a couple things from the car, she’ll be in in a minute.” He stoops to kiss her, straightens, and turns his attention to Steve and Bucky, hovering awkwardly behind Becca’s chair.

“You must be Uncle Bucky and Uncle Steve,” he says. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

For a moment, neither speaks, equally shocked at being addressed this way, although for different reasons. Steve has long considered the Barneses to be the closest thing he has to family, but he hadn’t realized the feeling was mutual—mutual enough for Becca’s grandchildren to think of him as an _uncle_. Bucky, he thinks, is probably more overwhelmed with the warmth of Jim’s greeting than the content of it—and, perhaps, taken aback by a family member likely named after him, and the clear family resemblance in Jim’s dark hair and blue eyes.

“It’s, uh, good to meet you too,” Steve manages at last, and shakes his hand; by then, Bucky’s recovered enough to repeat the gesture.

“I’m Sarah’s son—Becca’s my grandma,” says Jim, still smiling. “And this little rascal here is my son Ben, and this is my daughter Fiona—Fiona, come say hi.”

Fiona, in the manner of small children everywhere, hides behind Jim’s leg, but peeks out just enough to peer at the strangers.

Bucky crouches down, eye-level. “Fiona, huh?” he says, in the gentle tone Steve remembers him reserving for kids, back before the war. “That’s a real pretty name. Did you pick it out yourself?”

“Yeah,” says Fiona, inching out from behind Jim. “I was gonna be Elsa, but then I liked Fiona, and I’ve been Fiona for _three whole days_ , and Daddy says if I stick to one name for six months, I can change it for really real!”

“Wow, that’s pretty cool! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t know either, until Mommy and Daddy said I could!” she says, beaming. “Why’s your hand all shiny?”

“It’s made of metal,” says Bucky. “You want to touch it?”

She nods, eyes huge, and reaches out slowly, laying one tiny finger on Bucky’s metal palm. “It’s warm,” she says, sounding surprised. “Like skin.”

“That’s ‘cause the room is so warm.”

“Are you made of metal all the way through? Like a robot?”

Bucky grins. “Nope, just my arm. See?” he holds out his other hand, and she inspects it carefully.

“Oh,” she says, sounding a little disappointed. “It woulda been cool, if you were a cyborg, like in _Teen Titans_.”

“Fiona,” says Jim, “it’s not polite to ask people if they’re robots.”

“I don’t mind,” says Bucky, watching as Fiona traces the plates on the back of his hand. “I was a little like a robot, for a while.”

“But you got better?” asks Fiona, concerned.

Bucky laughs, pats her shoulder with his right hand. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’m a lot better now.”

The conversation is interrupted by the arrival of more family members—Jim’s wife Beth, Becca’s daughter Sarah and her husband Mike, Leah’s granddaughter Claire and her girlfriend Nicole, Leah’s son David and his wife and three kids, and several members of Leah’s husband’s family. None of them seem fazed by the two supersoldiers in their midst, welcoming Steve and Bucky without making a big deal of their presence. Everyone calls them “Uncle Bucky” and “Uncle Steve”, which is a little weird since they’re younger than most of the people there, but still extremely nice.

The house fills up with the smell of food cooking and the sound of conversation and laughter (and the occasional argument between the kids now running all over the place), and Steve finds himself sitting on the couch with Bucky, smiling and just soaking it in.

It gets overwhelming after a while, but no one seems to mind when the two of them slip outside for some fresh air; there are so many people that Steve suspects no one even noticed they were gone. They come back in time for dinner, for latkes and matzah ball soup, squeezed in with all the other relatives at Leah’s big dining room table.

Fiona sits next to Bucky and chatters to him the entire time, finally climbing into his lap and grabbing the last latke from his plate. He gets a startled, pleased look to his face, and glances over at Beth, clearly worried about her reaction.

Beth just smiles, says, “Let me know if she’s getting to be too much of a handful,” and goes back to her conversation with Nicole.

Bucky’s pleased little smile broadens, and Steve squeezes his hand. It’s a nice change, to see him so completely, genuinely happy.

After sunset, everyone files into the living room to watch Sarah place the first two candles in the menorah, which is set in pride of place in front of the big bay window.

She recites the first blessing, her rich alto washing over them like honey. Steve silently mouths along to it, the words coming back to him as he hears them: _Ba-ruch A-tah Ado-nai E-lo-he-nu Me-lech ha-olam a-sher ki-de-sha-nu be-mitz-vo-tav ve-tzi-va-nu le-had-lik ner shel Chanukah._ The words are nearly the same as the lighting of the candles on Shabbat, and it brings back his memories of childhood, the sound of the Hebrew warm and familiar in his ears, accompanied by the even more familiar food smells still wafting through the house.

On the second blessing, everyone joins in, the children with varying degrees of confidence, and Steve hums along, not certain enough of the words to try saying them aloud. Their voices rise and fall in harmony, offering praise and remembrance of long-ago miracles: _Ba-ruch A-tah Ado-nai E-lo-he-nu Me-lech Ha-olam she-a-sa ni-sim la-avo-te-nu ba-ya-mim ha-hem ba-zman ha-zeh._

The third blessing is familiar enough that Steve feels comfortable joining in: the _Shehecheyanu_ , recited at the beginning of every Jewish holiday. Beside him, Bucky chants the words, softly at first, but growing more and more confident, until at the end he is singing as loud as anyone, his light baritone soaring in a way Steve hasn’t heard since before the war: _Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh._

He’s not the only one who notices. By the end of the blessing, Becca and Leah both have tears in their eyes, and both reach out to him, Becca grabbing his hand, and Leah wrapping one arm around his waist, and the other around Steve’s.

They hold each other tight as Sarah lights the _shamash,_ then lights the first candle of the menorah, placing the _shamash_ in the center. There’s a moment of silence when she finishes, as though everyone is just taking in the sight of the menorah, the two candleflames reflected in the window.

Sarah turns, smiling. “Aunt Leah, are you going to read the Hanukkah story?”

“I sure am,” says Leah, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “Just have to get this dust out of my eye… Sarah, honey, I printed it out; it’s on the table, there, will you--? Thanks.” She sits down in the armchair by the fire, and the group orients toward her, the older adults sitting on the couch and chairs, and the young people sitting on the floor or leaning against the walls.

“Long ago,” she begins, “In 168 BCE, Israel was part of the Syrian empire…”

The familiar story is spun out, the tale of victory against oppressors, and of the miraculous oil that lasted eight days. Bucky is quiet, attentive, leaning against Becca’s chair, and Steve can’t help but wonder if this feels new to him—if this is like hearing the story for the very first time.

When Leah is finished, somebody produces gelt and dreidels, and the kids form a circle on the floor to play with them. Chatter recommences, and various people head to the kitchen for coffee, cookies, and of course, sufganiyot.

It feels so comfortable and familiar, a scene that’s played out so many times in various ways. Steve remembers the first time he’d been invited to a Barnes family holiday—Sukkot—and how much it had meant to him to be included. They had been so warm, so welcoming, treating him as part of the family; it had been the first time anyone other than his mother and Bucky had seemed to really value or want him. Now, more than eighty years later, he finds that he feels the same—welcomed, wanted, surrounded by love and warmth.

“You okay?” Bucky asks quietly, sidling up to him. He’s holding one of Becca’s great-grandchildren, six-month-old Jacob, in one arm, and looks thrilled to have a sleepy baby drooling all over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” says Steve, swallowing. “It just… it just feels good, you know? Being with your family again.”

“Think they’re your family too, now,” Bucky points out, bouncing a little for Jacob’s benefit. “Guess they adopted you when you weren’t looking.”

Steve blinks away the sudden dampness in his eyes. “Yeah. Guess they did.”

 

Eventually, the party winds down, and there’s an exodus of the people who are staying elsewhere—Sarah’s kids and grandkids are staying at her house, just on the other side of town, and several other family members have opted to stay at a nearby hotel.

Claire, Nicole, Steve, Bucky, and Becca are all staying at the house, and Bucky accompanies Becca to her room to help her get ready for bed.

Steve waits for him upstairs, sleepy, cozy, and full of good food and wine. The flannel sheets are soft against his skin, and the room smells pleasantly of beeswax and clean sheets; someone must have burned a candle in here recently. He thinks of Leah bustling around, airing out the room for them, and smiles.

There’s no sound of footsteps before Bucky comes in, his assassin’s feet silent even on Leah’s creaky wooden floors. He looks tired, but relaxed, his forehead smooth and unworried.

“Hey, Steve,” he says quietly, closing the door behind himself.

“Hey, Buck. You doing alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I… I’m glad we came.”

Steve can’t quite resist saying, “I knew they’d all like you.”

“Uh huh,” says Bucky, pulling his shirt over his head. “Just say ‘I told you so’ and get it over with.”

“Well, then. I told you so.”

Bucky snorts, and wriggles out of his jeans, completely unselfconscious about it. Steve envies his carelessness, but can’t begrudge him, since he knows it comes from years of having his personhood stripped away. And it means he can admire the view as much as he likes….

“Whatever you say, punk.”

“ _Punk_ ,” says Steve, delighted. “You haven’t called me that since…”

Bucky looks both pleased and embarrassed. “I know. I—it’s brought… a lot of memories back, being here. Seeing them.” He changes into pajama pants, and climbs into bed. “Claire looks a lot like Leah, when she was her age. I mean, I guess she’s actually a little older than Leah was the last time I saw her, but…”

“Yeah,” says Steve, turning off the lamp. “She’s got the Barnes eyes, for sure. And the chin.” He touches his finger to the cleft of Bucky’s chin, prompting a smile.

“I remember Leah not being too excited about that,” he says. “She thought it made her look… I don’t know. Not feminine enough, I guess.”

“I didn’t know that. I always thought it was real striking. Your family always— I always liked to draw you. Them. Becca had such sharp cheekbones, the way they caught the light…”

Bucky takes a sharp little breath. “I miss them,” he confesses. “Is that bad? I—I keep thinking, the old Becca and Leah—I mean, you know, the way they used to be—that they’ll turn up again. It’s not that I don’t love them now, just—in my head, they’re supposed to be young.”

“Yeah, I get that,” says Steve. “That’s part of why—I was real scared to see Peggy, you know. If I never saw her, I could pretend everything was the way it was—that all that time we lost was just a—a dream, or an illusion. But once I saw her, I’d have to face it—that it was really real, and everyone…” He doesn’t finish; doesn’t have to. He knows Bucky knows what he means.

“And I miss my parents,” Bucky says, almost wonderingly, like he hadn’t realized it until this moment. “I—before, I didn’t really remember them enough to miss them. I mean, I knew they existed, I had pictures that showed up in my head when I thought about them, but it just felt… so far away, you know? But now, being here…”

He swallows, tucks his head into Steve’s shoulder, pulls Steve even closer. “I keep thinking about them, about the stuff Mom used to say, and Dad letting us help in his workshop, and I… it’s like I only just found out.

“I want them back,” he whispers into Steve’s shirt, like a secret he’s half-hoping he won’t hear. “They’ve been gone for so long, and I just… I want my mom and dad back.”

Steve hugs him tightly, trying to tamp down his own grief. “I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I know, I—I miss them too.”

“Is it, do you still…” Bucky hesitates, chewing on his lip. “Will it always feel this way?” he asks finally, and he sounds so vulnerable, so unbearably _young._ Steve is abruptly reminded that with all Bucky has lost, he’s still new to _feeling_ loss, the memories of it only now resurfacing. And even those probably aren’t much help; Bucky’s family had been long-lived and generally healthy, and Steve’s own mother was probably the most significant loss he’d experienced before the war. And during the war… well, it’s not like you really _processed_ your grief; you shoved it all away into a corner, and tried not to think about it too much. There was no time for mourning when you were still getting shot at.

“With your ma, did it…”

“I’ve never stopped missing her,” says Steve slowly. “But it got… easier to bear, after a while. You and your family helped a lot with that. Now… I don’t know, I guess sometimes it feels like she died a hundred years ago, and others it still feels like yesterday. Like—like everyone who’s gone, they must have gone at the same time, and I just woke up to it. And… I guess it’s stupid, but I can’t quite realize they all died at different times, over the past seventy years… I always think of it as recent. I woke up, and they died, all at once.”

Bucky’s exhale is a warm breeze across Steve’s neck. “I don’t know how to _do_ this.”

“Yeah,” says Steve, also sighing. “Me neither, pal.”

They’re silent for a little while, just holding each other.

At last, Bucky stirs. “I guess, at least we can not-know together.”

“There is that,” Steve agrees. He strokes Bucky’s cheek with his thumb, feeling the slight hint of stubble there. “I’m glad you’re here, Buck.”

Bucky turns his head, pressing a kiss to Steve’s palm. “Me, too,” he whispers.

Steve shudders at the contact, losing his train of thought for a moment. “I think—” he starts, but stops to kiss Bucky’s nose, then his mouth, unable to help himself. “I think we’re gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, sounding kind of surprised about it. “I know.”

 

He wakes up around six the next morning, his skin buzzing with pent-up energy, the desperate need to _move_. His brain wants nothing more than to snuggle up to Bucky and catch a little more sleep, but his body clearly has other ideas.

Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from Bucky’s embrace, pressing a kiss to his forehead when he starts to stir.

Bucky, who sleeps on a hair-trigger and wakes at the slightest movement, doesn’t even open his eyes, just makes a slight querying noise without really opening his mouth.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Steve whispers. “I’m just going for a run.”

“Ugh,” says Bucky succinctly, and relaxes back into the pillows.

By the time Steve has changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, Bucky is asleep again, his breathing slow and even and peaceful.

All is quiet downstairs, with no sound of movement from Leah’s room. Steve takes the spare key from the hook by the door and lets himself out, into the pre-dawn darkness.

The sun is still an hour from rising; everything is cool and still, the stars beginning to fade from the slowly lightening sky. The orange glow of the city is visible on the southern horizon, and to the east, the faintest of pink is starting to show. Steve takes a deep breath of cold, crisp air, and lets it out in a cloud of steam, feeling something in him settle. Then he takes off.

He starts out at a gentle jog, just to get warmed up, heading towards the park he had noticed yesterday. It’s only ten minutes from Leah’s house, even at this slow pace, and by the time he gets there, his muscles have warmed to the exercise, and his lungs have adjusted to the chilly air.

There’s no one around at quarter-after-six on Thanksgiving morning, and Steve feels himself relaxing even further. The gym at Stark Tower is very impressive, but he missed the outdoors, and there are too many people (and too many cameras) in the city. Here, though—here, he can breathe.

He lengthens his stride until he’s running flat out, legs pumping steadily, and feels the familiar rush of exhilaration. As long as he lives, he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over this feeling of power, of effortless strength; his body obeys him perfectly, easily, every muscle and tendon working exactly as it’s supposed to, his heart and lungs easily fueling his exertion. It’s even more wonderful like this, to move for the sheer joy of it, without some greater purpose or mission.

 _This is what I am_ , he tells himself, leaping over a fallen log. _This is all I need to be._

The trail splits around a big oak tree, and he runs straight up the trunk, pushes off, flips, and lands again, rolling to absorb the impact. Popping to his feet once more, he takes off down the left-hand trail, jumping up to swing on low-hanging branches and dodging sideways to push off of tree trunks. It’s more fun than any obstacle course at the Avengers’ training facility, and he laughs at himself, giddy with the fresh air and freedom.

He runs laps around the park until the sun is well and truly risen, and the first few joggers and dog-walkers are beginning to appear. Breathless and sweaty, he begins his cooldown, thoughts now turning towards Leah’s house, towards coffee and breakfast and Bucky waiting for him.

 

By the time he gets showered and changed, Bucky’s awake, sitting up in bed and reading something on his tablet.

“Anything interesting?” Steve asks, digging through the duffle bag for socks.

“Yeah, actually.” Bucky looks up, frowning slightly—not a worried frown, but one that means he’s thinking hard about something. “Dr. Madani forwarded me a message from the prosthetics specialist.”

“The mystery person we had to sign all those NDA’s for?” asks Steve, going to sit beside him. “What’d they say?”

“He said he’ll do it,” says Bucky, showing him the tablet. “But there are conditions.”

“Of course there are,” Steve growls. He should have known nothing could be that easy. “What does he want?”

“We’re not allowed to tell anyone where we got the technology,” says Bucky slowly. “And I’d have to go to Wakanda to get the arm, um, attached.”

Steve blinks, thrown. He’d assumed the demands would be more along the lines of “kill my enemies” or “give me a pint of your blood.” “Where’s Wakanda?” he asks.

“North African country. Supposedly the poorest nation in the world, no imports or exports, closed borders, doesn’t accept foreign aid—or foreign anything, really. Oh yeah, and it’s the only African country that was never colonized. I googled it,” he adds, seeing Steve’s surprised expression.

“If they’re so poor,” says Steve slowly, “how come they’ve got the most advanced prosthetics in the world?”

He knows from talking to Tony that Bucky’s current prosthetic is much more advanced than anything currently on the market. For someone to be able to improve on it, they have to be one of the world’s foremost experts—if not _the_ world’s foremost expert.

“Well, that’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it?” Bucky answers. “I guess we’ll find out—if I go through with it.”

“And… will you?”

He glances at the tablet again. “He says he can make an arm that’s almost identical in weight to my flesh arm. It’d take away all the strain on my back and shoulders… and he says he could make it so I could feel more stuff with it, too—as sensitive as my other hand, he says. Dr. Madani would do all the measurements and scans and things, they’d build it over there, and then…”

“Fly to Wakanda,” Steve supplies.

“Yeah.” He takes a breath. “Thing is… attaching the arm requires surgery. He said it’s very safe, but.”

“Surgery.”

“Yeah. And of course—I don’t do too well with planes. And it’s a long flight.”

“It’s a big decision,” says Steve, trying to keep his voice neutral. Honestly, he’s not sure what to think—it sounds too good to be true, except for the issues Bucky just pointed out, and the secrecy. He’s a little worried they’ll be disappeared into some secret government facility and never come out again.

“You’d come with me, right?” Bucky asks, sounding a little desperate.

“Of course, Bucky.”

“And Dr. Madani said he’d come too, and—he said we can tell the Avengers, as long as they sign the same agreements we did, and one of them can come with us if we want.”

“That sounds reasonable,” says Steve cautiously.

“I don’t like going into this blind,” Bucky says, “But Madani trusts him, and if we’ve got backup…”

“We’ll do our research,” Steve promises. “We can skype with the guy, right? Get a feel for him…”

“He said we’d need to do consultations over video. And I guess he and Madani have been friends for a long time—this isn’t the first time Madani’s referred someone to him—so…”

“So you think you’ll go for it?”

Bucky releases a breath, looking strangely relieved. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I will.”

 

If Steve had thought the house crowded last night, it’s nothing compared to Thanksgiving day. The rest of Becca and Leah’s kids show up, along with more grandkids, grand-nieces and nephews, and various spouses and hangers-on. Even Steve’s serum-enhanced memory is strained to the utmost to remember everyone’s names and connections, and Bucky doesn’t even try.

The table is piled high with the usual Thanksgiving fare—turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce—along with the delicacies Steve remembers from their childhood—gefilte fish, kugel, vegetarian sarmale, and the ever-present latkes. There’s not enough room for everyone in the dining room, so people eat wherever there’s room; a small group of teenagers even ends up on the stairs, balancing their plates on their knees. They light the three candles in the menorah afterwards, and Steve thinks that the resulting glow is somehow bigger and warmer than any candle could possibly produce.

Steve had a lonely childhood, and until recently, the past year was even lonelier. Now, surrounded by people—surrounded by _family_ , who have welcomed him and Bucky with open arms—he can hardly believe his luck. He hadn’t thought he’d ever feel this sense of belonging again, and yet here he is, with Bucky’s arm around his shoulder, and the chatter of a couple dozen family members filling the house with talk and laughter.

The phone in his pocket buzzes again, and he extracts it to see more messages filling the Avengers’ group chat— _Happy Thanksgiving_ and _Happy Hanukkah_ , pictures of food and labels of expensive wine; Natasha has sent _Let me know if you need extraction_ , and Tony, _Still can’t believe you ditched us_ ; Pepper adds, _We miss you_ , and Bruce chimes in with _Hope you’re having a good time._ It doesn’t take any insight to read between the lines, to see the affection and care written there.

Steve smiles softly, writing back, _Everything’s good, we’re having a good time_ and _You’ll have us all to yourselves on Christmas, Tony._

“Maybe next year, we can have something at our place,” says Bucky. There’s a quiet hesitancy to his voice; it’s the first time he’s acknowledged the idea as anything other than a pipe dream.

“You mean Hanukkah, or…?”

“Maybe. One of the holidays. Or Thanksgiving.” Bucky takes a breath. “If we—if we found someplace big enough.”

Steve nods, something warm and fragile expanding in his chest. “I’d like that, Buck.”

He can see it, too; see a future unfurling before them, one of freedom and possibility. He’s not fool enough to think it will be easy, but he knows now that whatever obstacles they face, they won’t do so alone. They have a family here, and they have their found family in the Avengers, and they have each other. There’s a home for them, he knows now, and time and space to build a future together, to heal and grow and decide who and what they want to be.

The light of the menorah dances against the windowpane, a beacon of hope, of survival and victory against the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is not particularly rational about the things he blames himself for in this chapter. He needs therapy. I think SHIELD is hella shady, but in this universe, there's no HYDRA, so they're not, like, evil. I have Opinions about American foreign policy, which definitely shade my interpretation of SHIELD, but... yeah, they're not the bad guys in this fic. They're just operating in a gray area that Steve isn't comfortable with.  
> I am shamelessly projecting my literary tastes onto these characters (but I do truly think that those particular authors would really resonate with the characters).  
> The "You look old" thing is a reference to My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and is a standard joke in my family.  
> Fiona was AMAB. Her parents are super supportive, and letting her try out different aspects of her identity. Hopefully that comes across-- if anything with her characterization feels problematic, let me know. (She is also slightly based on a (cis) kid I knew who kept changing her name in kindergarten-- her parents didn't let her change it officially, though).  
> No, it's not gonna be Shuri building Bucky's arm-- I really _wanted _it to be, but Shuri would be thirteen years old in this, and genius though she is, it didn't seem plausible that she'd be at the cutting edge of prosthetic research at that age. The specialist in this fic is an OC, who is an expert at Wakanda's top medical research center.__  
>  The English translations of the Hanukkah blessings are as follows:  
> 1st Blessing: Blessed are You, Lord our G‑d, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah light.  
> 2nd Blessing: Blessed are You, Lord our G‑d, King of the universe, who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days, at this time.  
> 3rd Blessing: Blessed are You, Lord our G‑d, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.  
> (Translations from https://www.chabad.org/holidays/chanukah/article_cdo/aid/103874/jewish/Blessings-on-the-Menorah.htm)


	18. Epilogue: May 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, everyone, for coming with me on this journey. Your comments and kudos have kept me going! Special thanks to EmilliaGryphon and siyuttov for betaing. And to every person who has commented-- thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You have no idea how much your words meant to me.  
> This is the end of the fic, but I may post some snippets from this universe at some point.  
> <3

_We'll have tiny boxes for memories  
Open them up and we'll set them free  
There'll be bad days and some hard times  
But I'll keep your secrets, if you keep mine_

_[…]  
Keep your memories, but don't live the past  
I'm looking forward to the best days we will have_

_You are the memory that won't ever lapse  
When twenty-five years have suddenly passed  
Wherever you take me, it's clear I will go  
Your love's the one love that I need to know_

_\--“Boxes”, the Goo Goo Dolls_

 

“Last box!” Tony announces, clumping into the house in his Iron Man suit. “Where do you want it?”

Steve puts down the armchair he’s carrying and weaves his way through the other boxes to peer at the label. “Kitchen. Thanks, Tony.”

“No, problem, Cap.” He moves toward the kitchen, still talking. “I’ve actually never helped anyone move in bef—” There’s a crash, Tony’s strangled, “BARTON!”, and Clint’s mournful, “Aww, kettle.”

“Are you breaking my stuff, Barton?” Steve asks, opening a box of books.

“No!” says Clint, a little too quickly. Then, “I don’t _think_ so,” followed, even less convincingly, by, “It was Tony’s fault!”

“It certainly was not,” Tony retorts. “Look, it’s fine, the base is supposed to detach, it’s an _electric kettle_ , Clint.”

Steve lets their bickering fade into the background, focusing instead on placing the books on the bookshelf in his and Bucky’s new living room. He still can hardly believe this house—a Queen Anne farmhouse a little way south of New Paltz—is _theirs_ , his and Bucky’s. They closed on it back in January, with a loan from Tony to supplement Steve’s Avengers pay. They’d paid him back as soon as they received the first installment of their army backpay in February, and the house and ten-acre property are fully theirs, free and clear.

The house had needed a lot of work, and they spent most of the spring refurbishing it, with Tony and Jim Rhodes volunteering to redo the wiring, and other Avengers popping in and out to help with whatever unskilled labor was necessary. Sarah, who is an interior designer, helped them pick out color schemes and find furniture and decorations, and several of Bucky’s grandnieces and nephews had spent a weekend helping to paint all the interior walls.

They moved in the furniture this morning, and now all that’s left is unpacking their belongings from the Tower and putting them in place. With the furniture in, a rug laid down, and books on the bookshelf, it’s starting to look like a home, even with the boxes still scattered across the floor.

Bucky, Natasha, and Thor come down the stairs just as Steve is sliding the last book into place.

“We’ve put away everything upstairs,” announces Natasha. “Except for your art stuff, Steve—”

“And we haven’t put the pictures on the wall yet, since we said we’d do that together,” Bucky finishes.

“That was quick,” says Steve, impressed.

Thor grins. “We’re superheroes, what do you expect?”

“Good point,” says Steve, smiling back. “Bucky, you want to help me hang the Brooklyn painting?”

“Sure.”

The “Brooklyn painting” is a large watercolor Steve found while exploring galleries with Pepper; it depicts an underpass in Brighton Beach in the heavy rain, and he’s inordinately fond of it. He carefully removes it from its cardboard wrappings, and Bucky takes one corner of it. Together, they hang it from the waiting hooks above the mantlepiece, shifting it around while Natasha calls out directions.

“Bucky, bring your corner up a little—not that high—down a little—there!”

Steve carefully lets go, stepping back to survey it properly. “What d’you think, Buck?”

“It looks good.” Bucky bumps his shoulder against Steve’s, reassuring. “It fits.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Thor, looking at it admiringly. “It captures the _essence_ of rain, does it not?”

“That’s what I said!” Steve says. “And the texture—look, you can see where the paint has been layered to give that streaky effect—”

Bucky gives him an indulgent look, and kisses him on the temple. “And yet you still claim not to be an art critic.”

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve complains, blushing. “One year of art school seventy years ago doesn’t make me an expert.”

“You could go back to school,” says Natasha, watching him closely. “New Paltz has a giant art program; you could commute. You’ve certainly got enough money for it.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He’d be lying if he said he _hadn’t_ thought of it, more than once; the possibility of picking up where he left off, of relearning how to be an artist. It was Bucky who insisted that the room upstairs should be his studio, and who had encouraged him to buy art supplies once their backpay had taken care of all their financial concerns for the foreseeable future. Somehow, he hasn’t had the courage to go beyond idly dreaming—to really commit to his art, to making it a passion again.

“Indeed, it would be wonderful to see you pursue your artistic endeavors more fully,” Thor says. “I have greatly enjoyed seeing your sketches, and would like to see more.”

Steve glances at Bucky, whose eyes are soft and fond.

“You know I’d be onboard if you wanted to get a proper education, Stevie. I always did think it was a crying shame you had to drop out in the first place.”

Now that the idea has been spoken out loud, it feels far more tangible; what had seemed an impossible fantasy in his head seems suddenly achievable, now that the others are treating it as such. The rush of excitement is almost scary, bringing up the old feeling that if he wants something _this much_ , there must be something wrong with it—or that it will somehow fall apart. It’s something he’s working on in therapy, but it’s slow going.

“Maybe,” he says, thinking of the box of mostly untouched supplies upstairs. “I’ll think about it.”

“You should,” says Natasha. “No pressure, of course.”

“Of course.”

“ _But_ it would be really cool to see your name in a gallery someday, just saying.”

“That might be getting a little ahead—"

They’re interrupted by the shrill of Steve’s phone. He fumbles it out of his pocket, sees their lawyer’s number on the display, and his good mood evaporates. He tries to keep the trepidation out of his voice as he answers. “Marta, hi.”

“Is James with you?” she asks briskly, eschewing a greeting.

Steve puts the phone on speaker. “Yeah, he’s here. Is something wrong?”

“We won,” she says without preamble. “Ross and six of his immediate subordinates are getting life sentences, and another fifteen are getting twenty-five years.” Her voice is filled with vicious satisfaction. “They’re not going to be bothering you anymore.”

Steve releases a shuddering sigh, and reaches blindly for Bucky, pulling him close. “It’s… it’s over, then?”

“It’s over,” she confirms. “And Steve, you’re receiving 500,000 dollars in damages.”

“I… what? But—”

“James is receiving 800,000, as he was a captive for much longer.”

Bucky stares at the phone, mouth open in shock. “But that’s… that’s over a million dollars.”

“Yes. 1,300,000, to be exact,” she says, sounding amused.

“ _How_?”

“I told you we were trying to get compensation for what they put you through,” she reminds them.

“Yeah,” says Steve, trying to wrap his mind around it, “But that’s so _much_.”

“The Army is responsible for what can’t be covered by Ross and his associates’ personal funds,” she says. “Since they were complicit.”

“Christ.”

“Exactly. I’ll be emailing you the full details, but I wanted to give you the good news first.”

“Thank you,” says Steve, dazed. “I… wow.”

“Any questions for me right now?”

“No, I… don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll let you go. Have a good day. And congratulations!”

“Thanks,” he repeats, and hangs up. He turns to look at Bucky, knowing he must look like he just got hit over the head with his own shield. “We _won_ ,” he says, disbelieving.

“We won,” Bucky repeats. He makes a strangled noise, half laughter, half something else, and suddenly throws his arms around Steve’s neck, kissing him hard. “We won!”

Steve kisses him back, half lifting him off his feet, and swings him around. “We won!”

“Congratulations!” Thor booms, and Steve finds himself enveloped in a hug. “This is a great victory, indeed!”

“Thanks,” Steve gasps out, lungs crushed by Thor’s enthusiasm.

“What’s congratulations?” Tony demands from somewhere behind them, and Thor releases him to embrace Bucky in turn.

“We won our case,” Steve responds, and anything else he might have said is drowned out by the others’ cheering.

He’s hugged by Natasha and Clint, and high-fived by Bruce; Tony and Pepper both kiss him on the cheek, which is a thing they’ve been doing for the past couple of months, and which Steve is almost used to; then Clint, who hadn’t actually heard what Steve said, demands to know what’s going on, Steve and Bucky rush to explain, and the group devolves into triumphant chaos the moment they’re done.

Tony had already brought champagne to celebrate the move-in, and they crack it open now, toasting each other in tea mugs and juice glasses, since they don’t have champagne flutes and their wine glasses are still buried in a box somewhere in the kitchen. Steve feels as light and fizzy as the champagne, a weight he hadn’t even realized he was still carrying lifted off his shoulders.

_It’s over_ , he thinks. _The war, the torture, the fighting—all of it. We’re done._

 

Later, after the others have left, Steve and Bucky sit on the steps of the slightly-dilapidated porch, listening to the frogs chorus in the pond across the yard. Moonlight turns the grass into a pool of gleaming points and sharp shadows, striped by the longer shadows of the big maple trees that stand sentinel around the house.

Steve leans against Bucky, reaching up to pull Bucky’s arm around his shoulders. It’s his left arm, the new one designed by the Wakandans, and it’s not only lighter and more sensitive than the old one, it’s also more beautiful—sleek black vibranium, with gold detailing tracing abstract patterns over the metal. When Bucky had first tried it out, he had cried in relief; he hadn’t even realized how much pain he was in on a daily basis, until it suddenly ceased.

“You doing okay, there, Stevie?” Bucky asks softly.

Steve makes a contented sound. “Just can’t believe we get to be this happy.”

“Guess it’s hard to believe in happy endings,” Bucky murmurs, “when you weren’t supposed to make it to thirty in the first place.”

“Still haven’t made it to thirty,” Steve points out, just to be contrary. “I skipped right over it, and then went backwards.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t see you dyin’ of pneumonia in the next cold snap,” says Bucky. He kisses Steve’s hair, then tilts Steve’s head up to kiss his lips. “We ain’t near the end of the line, yet, sweetheart. Not by a long way.”

“Not by a long way,” Steve repeats, and wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, deepening the kiss.

It’s not what he would have pictured for himself, if he’d dared to imagine a happy ending, but that’s okay; this isn’t an ending, anyway. His past will always follow him like a shadow, the good and bad, the love and grief and broken edges, but he’s learning not to dwell on it. The possibilities and unknowns of the future beckon, a winding road of dappled light and shadow; he knows it won’t always be perfect, but he has no fear of it, not with Bucky by his side. And as for the present…

_Well,_ he thinks, as Bucky pulls him onto his lap, his mouth grazing Steve’s throat, _the present is looking pretty good, too._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea how legal stuff works for things like this. At all. (All I know is legal battles tend to take a ridiculously long time.)
> 
> The "Brooklyn painting" is [Brighton Beach Cyclist](http://www.susanweintraub.com/cityscapes?image#0) by Susan Weintraub.


End file.
